


Beyond the Sea

by citrinesunset



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, F/M, Gen, Medical Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://whitecollar-bb.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://whitecollar-bb.livejournal.com/)**whitecollar_bb**. This fic is an AU taking place around the time of Neal's arrest in "Forging Bonds."
> 
> Thank you very much to [](http://slytheringurrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**slytheringurrl**](http://slytheringurrl.livejournal.com/) for the wonderful artwork! Her art post is [here](http://slytheringurrl.livejournal.com/106167.html).
> 
> I would also like to thank [](http://wise-old-crone.livejournal.com/profile)[**wise_old_crone**](http://wise-old-crone.livejournal.com/) and [](http://treonb.livejournal.com/profile)[**treonb**](http://treonb.livejournal.com/) for betaing. This fic was a little overwhelming, and getting their feedback was a huge help. Credit also goes to [](http://wise-old-crone.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://wise-old-crone.livejournal.com/)**wise_old_crone** for coming up with the title.

  
_Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man’s memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull._ \- Mark Lawrence

 

It was a bright, breezy day in late June, and the _Catch Me If You Can_ was gliding on the water.

Neal was not immune to the appropriateness of the sloop's name. A few weeks ago, he'd had a close call while stealing Byzantine coins, and now he was relaxing in Cape Cod while he waited for everything to blow over.

He held on to the mainsail rope loosely in one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other. The Atlantic Ocean stretched out as though it was infinite, and the sun glinted off the water.

"I can't believe I forgot the sunblock," Annabelle said. "I can already feel myself burning."

Neal looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. "You look great."

She gave him a faux-modest smile. "You won't think so if I burn."

"If you burn, I could rub some aloe on your back."

"Really? You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were happy my father couldn't join us today."

The sloop belonged to Annabelle's father. It'd been a couple years since Neal had been sailing, and he'd never done it without a more experienced captain. But he knew his way around a boat, and Annabelle told him she'd been sailing since she was a teenager.

"It's not a crime to want to get to know you better," Neal said with a smile.

"If you want to get to know me without my father around, we'll have to get together once I'm back in New York."

It was funny—Neal had come to Cape Cod to get away from New York for a while, and he and Annabelle had found a connection in the fact that they were both from Manhattan. At first, he'd considered conning her father—the man had a first-rate art collection. But he liked Annabelle too much to do that now. And right now, he felt like taking it easy. He was enjoying Annabelle's company and hospitality.

But Neal doubted he would continue their fling. He planned to return home within a few weeks, and that would give him a head start on Annabelle, who was staying at her father's summer house until late July. By the time she returned to Manhattan, Neal doubted she would even care about him.

It was for the best. It wasn't that he didn't care for Annabelle—she was wonderful. But she was a good match for Steve Tabernackle. Not Neal Caffrey. And Neal knew that when he returned to New York, he would feel magnetically drawn to Kate again.

But after months of trying to win Kate back, and trying to evade Agent Burke and the FBI, spending some time as Steve was a nice diversion.

On the starboard side, another sailboat was gliding nearby. Neal watched the men on board.

The wind started to pick up, blowing the sloop off-course. Neal stood, preparing to adjust the sails.

What happened next felt like it happened in slow-motion. A strong gust of wind bombarded the boat. He heard Annabelle cry "Steve! Look out!" The wind caught the mainsail, and before Neal could move, the boom swung toward his head.

Everything went black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. His left eye was blurry, but with his right, he could see that he was covered in a mess of wires and IV lines. He fumbled around with a weak arm and his hand landed on a remote control. He pushed the button he found as hard as he could.

He tried to lift his head, but he didn't have the strength.

Two nurses rushed into the room. One quickly turned around and left again, and the other came inside. He found himself staring at her pink and black scrubs. He blinked, hoping to clear his left eye, but it didn't work.

"Awake, huh? How are you feeling?"

"What happened?" His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.

"You had an accident. Your doctor will be here in a minute."

An accident. The beeping coming from the monitor on his right grew faster.

"I don't remember...."

"That's normal after head trauma. It might take some time for you to remember what happened."

A minute later, a woman in a white coat came into the room, followed by a younger woman and man.

"I'm Dr. Britt. I've been taking care of you. This is Dr. Krauss and Dr. Newton, a couple of my interns. They're going to observe, okay?"

He had a hard time taking that in, but he nodded.

"You've been with us for about a day," Dr. Britt said. "You suffered some serious head trauma, and you had an intracranial hematoma—that means blood had collected inside your skull and was putting pressure on your brain. We had to relieve the pressure, but you're stable now. Do you remember what happened to you?"

"N-no. Why can't I? What's wrong?"

"Maybe nothing. Some memory loss is normal. But I need to look you over and ask you some questions, all right?"

She took a small flashlight out of her pocket and shone it in his eyes. As she looked, she said, "Can you tell me your name?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but he realized he didn't know. When he hesitated, Dr. Britt frowned.

"How about where you live? Can you tell us that?"

"St. Louis. I think I'm from St. Louis."

That earned him another frown, and he didn't know why.

"Can you tell us today's date? It doesn't have to exact. If you just know the month, you can say that."

"I-I don't know."

"According to your ID, your name is Steve Tabernackle. Does that ring a bell?"

He pushed at his memory, trying desperately to remember if the name was familiar. But it might as well have been a stranger's.

"I don't know. Maybe...." Tears welled up in his eyes. He felt like he was going to cry, but he didn't know why. He didn't know what was happening to him.

"Okay, Steve? You're going to be all right."

"Why can't I remember?"

"You've had a serious head injury. It's going to take some time to know how your memory is going to be affected. Now, I need you to try to make a fist for me. Can you do that?"

His muscles felt weak, but he closed his left hand into a fist. The rest of the tests were a blur. He was instructed to move his legs and wiggle his toes. Dr. Britt asked him more questions.

Finally, she said, "Good. I'm not seeing any signs of serious brain damage. We'll need to get you in for an MRI, but I think you're going to be lucky."

He didn't _feel_ luck, or okay. "But I can't remember."

"We just have to wait and see. You'll probably start to remember things over the next few days."

When he realized she was planning to leave with her interns, Steve said, "No one's told me what happened. About the accident."

"You were in a sailing accident," Dr. Britt said, "Your girlfriend was on the boat with you. She'd like to see you, if you feel up to it."

"Yeah, I want to see her."

He had a girlfriend. He tried to paint a picture of her in his mind, but it was unclear.

The woman who came into his room several minutes later wasn't recognizable at all. She had long auburn hair and her face, though lovely, was pale and tired. Her eyes were puffy.

"Steve?" she said softly.

He tried to smile. "Hi."

She walked slowly over to the bed. "The nurses told me you're having trouble remembering stuff. Do you remember my name?"

"I'm sorry."

"That's okay," she said, though her voice cracked as she said it. "I'm Annabelle. Annabelle Pryor."

"And you're my girlfriend."

"Sort of, yes."

"They said we were on a sailboat."

Annabelle blinked away tears. "Yes. We were sailing, and the boom swung and hit you. I'm...I'm so sorry."

"They said it was an accident."

"Yes. Of course. But I'm still sorry." She placed her hands on the bedrail. "How are you feeling?"

"Like they cut open my head." He knew they'd told him why that was necessary, but he couldn't remember. He'd felt around near where they'd drilled into his skull, but all he could feel was thick bandages. "Do I look horrible?"

"No...no. I mean, I think they had to shave off some of your hair. And you have some bruising. But no."

"I want to see myself."

Annabelle bit her lip. She reached for the purse hanging from her arm, but hesitated. "I don't know if you should. You're—you're really bruised."

"I want to see."

She opened her purse and pulled out a small folding mirror. She opened it and held it in front of his face.

Maybe he expected to recognize himself. But even if he could remember what he was supposed to look like, he wouldn't have been able to tell now. The left side of his face was swollen and black and blue. His left eye opened only enough for him to see that it was bloodshot. There was an ugly row of thick black stitches across his temple.

He stared numbly at his reflection until Annabelle closed the mirror.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first couple days were a blur, and he thought he spent most of that time asleep. He wasn't sure—waking and sleeping didn't feel drastically different.

He felt like he was adrift.

His doctor, whose name he had a hard time remembering, explained patiently that he had both retrograde and anterograde amnesia. One meant that he couldn't access old memories. The other meant that he had trouble forming new ones.

His doctor assured him that this could improve, and that he would probably get better. Steve had no memory of what being better felt like.

When Annabelle visited him, he sensed that she was patiently repeating stuff he'd once known. Maybe even stuff that she'd told him the previous day.

But after the first couple days, information started to stick better. When Annabelle arrived in the morning to visit him, he remembered both her face and name. He recognized the nurse who brought him his breakfast.

When Dr. Britt saw him that afternoon, she told him this was a sign of great improvement. But he still remembered almost nothing from before the accident. He had vague memories of being a child. He knew he'd lived in St. Louis, and could remember walking down a sidewalk with a woman who might have been his mother. But according to Annabelle, he'd been living in New York, and had spent the past couple years traveling the world.

His left eye was still blurry. Dr. Britt explained that he had something called traumatic optic neuropathy, caused by the blow to his temple. They were giving him steroids to treat it.

He still tired easily, and he fell asleep after lunch. He woke up to the sound of voices in his room. One of them was Annabelle. The other was a man he hadn't seen before. He had a fresh tan that contrasted with his neatly-cut white hair.

"There's no use dwelling on it," the man was saying softly, "it was an accident."

"I know, but I can't stop—" she noticed Steve watching them and smiled tensely. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Hanging in there." He looked at the newcomer curiously.

"Dad," Annabelle said softly, "you'll have to introduce yourself, remember?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, right." He extended his hand to Steve to shake. "I'm Greg Pryor, Annabelle's father. I apologize for my lack of manners—it's strange to introduce myself to a man I've known for the past few weeks."

"It's strange to have to be reacquainted."

"I can imagine."

Steve fiddled with his remote and raised the backrest of the bed. "But thank you for coming," he said.

"Of course," Mr. Pryor said. "Listen, I know you're focused on recovering right now, and I don't want to overwhelm you, but I think it's a good idea if we talk. First of all, let me say that both Annabelle and I feel terrible that you were hurt. As a gesture of goodwill, I'd like to help out however I can."

"Thank you, Mr. Pryor. I appreciate that."

"Annabelle tells me you don't have a permanent place to live right now."

"Yeah, I was spending some time abroad." Now that he could remember them, it was easy to parrot the details Annabelle had told him, even though they felt like fiction.

"Once they release you, you're welcome to stay at our summer home while we're in town. That should give you some time to make plans."

"Thank you."

"Also...I feel I should help pay for your medical expenses. When you feel up to it, I'd like to work something out."

"That's very generous of you."

Earlier that day, someone from the hospital came to ferret out whether he might have health insurance. He knew the hospital would want some sort of payment soon, or at least the promise of money.

From everything Annabelle told him, Steve believed he must have money. He'd spent time living in Paris and Rome, and had talked about being an art collector. His wallet, which had been in his pants pocket, had a gold card and a debit card.

But he didn't know how much money he actually had, or how to access it. And he couldn't begin to imagine how expensive his treatment was.

He knew that sooner or later, he would have to put his life back together. He wondered if there was anyone out there who missed him. His phone only had one contact, and when the hospital had tried calling it in hopes of locating his next of kin, the number had been out of service. There was no name.

It was as though Steve Tabernackle was completely alone in the world.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Pryors' summer home was a large cottage by the beach. Steve was set up in one of the guest rooms, which was decorated in art deco style.

It was good to be out of the clinical, sanitized confines of the hospital. He'd been there two weeks. In the final days, when he'd been cleared to leave his room, he'd taken walks outside with Annabelle. It felt good, but he was ashamed of how weak he was, and how quickly he had to sit and rest.

After his release, Annabelle had helped him collect his things from the hotel. He was relieved to find out that he still had a couple days left on his reservation, and that they seemed to have no trouble with the credit card he'd used.

Back at the Pryors' home, he got to work unpacking. Annabelle had offered her help, but he wanted to do it alone. He thought that by looking through his belongings, he might get a sense of who he was.

The items in his suitcase and duffel bag failed to trigger any recognition, but he analyzed them to get a picture of himself. The shirts were all made of fine cotton. He had a tie bar and a pair of cufflinks. Steve Tabernackle had style and class.

In the duffel bag, he found a sketchpad and a box of pencils. He flipped through the pages and marveled at the rough drawings. He was an artist. He wondered if he could still draw. There were a couple sketches of a pretty woman with large, round eyes and long, dark hair. He ran his thumb across her face and wondered who she was. Did he know her, or was she just a model?

He had a keychain, but no idea what doors the keys opened.

Next, he examined the contents of his wallet for what must have been the fiftieth time. In addition to the credit and debit cards, there was a New York driver's license. The hospital had apparently looked in his wallet for any information about a next of kin, but there was nothing. No emergency contact cards. Not even any worn photographs.

He found a crinkled note folded in a pocket of his wallet. It said, "Tabernackle acct: Sinclair. Meriwether. Harry. BMW. Memorize this and BURN IT!"

Steve raised his eyebrows. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but he didn't have enough samples of his own writing to know if it was his. It was probably a good thing he hadn't followed the instructions on the note—he got a sense the information was important, and if he'd had it memorized once, he definitely didn't now. He carefully stashed it back in his wallet.

Once he'd finished unpacking, he went outside to the patio and sat on one of the lounge chairs facing the sea. The Pryors' maid kindly brought him a glass of iced tea. He thought he would like something stronger, but he wasn't supposed to mix alcohol with his medications.

There was medication for the headaches he got. A blood thinner to prevent clots. Anticonvulsive drugs to prevent seizures. Steroids to help heal his damaged optic nerve.

He ran his hand over his short, bristly hair. A nurse had agreed to help him buzz off the rest of his hair. He didn't like it, but it was better than having bald patches where they'd stitched him up and drilled into his skull.

When he tired of watching the sea, he started to read a magazine he'd gotten from the hospital gift shop. He'd only been reading for a few minutes when he heard footsteps behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Annabelle.

Annabelle stopped behind his chair and, reached down, and rubbed his shoulders. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Good. I'm still tired, but the doctor said that'll be normal for a while."

"Get all the rest you need. You can stay here as long as you like."

He squeezed her hand. "Thank you. But I need to start thinking about getting my life back in order."

She released his shoulders and walked around to sit on the lounge chair next to his. She sat down sideways so that she was facing him.

"Do you want to try to contact your family?"

"You said I told you I was an orphan."

"You could have siblings. Or aunts, uncles...."

"If I was close to someone, they'd try to contact me."

"I just think it would help, you know? If you had someone who can tell you about who you are."

She was right. It would make things easier, and sooner or later, he would need to look for his friends and family. But he didn't feel ready. Little things still overwhelmed him more than he liked. For now, he would try to take care of the immediate concerns on his own.

"I want to get access to my bank account. And my credit card. I need to find out what my resources are."

"You'll need to think about your birth certificate. And your social security card. You don't have either of those with you, do you?"

"I'll figure it out." He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "You know what will happen? Someone I know will call me, and I'll explain what happened. If it comes down to it, I'm sure there are people who remember me in Manhattan."

"Do you want to come back to New York with me when I go?"

One way or another, he would leave the beach house when Annabelle did—Steve didn't get the sense that he and Mr. Pryor had known each other well. Annabelle was their main connection.

Before leaving the hospital, Annabelle's father and his lawyer had presented Steve with a document outlining Mr. Pryor's intent to help with Steve's medical expenses. The document thoroughly spelled out what would be paid for, and the maximum amount Mr. Pryor was agreeing to give. In return, Steve had to sign and agree that he wouldn't seek legal damages in the future.

Mr. Pryor and the lawyer had assured him that it was just a formality. But Steve wasn't stupid. He still knew some things about how the world worked, and he could tell Mr. Pryor didn't want to be sued. As he'd signed the document, Steve had wondered if he might have a case if he sued the Pryors.

But it didn't matter. Thanks to the Pryors, the worst of his expenses would be covered. Steve was happy for simple victories right now, and the thought of suing was overwhelming. Besides, he believed he cared deeply for Annabelle, even if those feelings were lost to him.

Now, Annabelle wanted him to return to New York _with_ her.

"Of course," he said. "That'd be great."

"You were telling me you don't have a permanent place to live in New York just now, so you're welcome to stay in my apartment while you decide what you'd like to do."

"I'd hate to intrude...."

"Oh, you wouldn't be."

Instinct told Steve not to question his good fortune, but all the same, he asked, "Why are you being so good to me? If you feel like you owe me...."

"It's not like that."

"I don't know how long we were together, how serious we were...."

There were a lot of questions about their relationship that he didn't want to ask. He wanted her to feel like everything was normal between them, whatever "normal" was.

"Well, we weren't _serious_. Not exactly. But I guess the accident put things in perspective. When you were in the hospital, they wouldn’t tell me how you were doing since I'm not family. But I couldn't make myself leave. When they told me you were awake, and that you'd see me, I was so relieved."

She got up and, after a moment's hesitation, perched on the edge of his chair. She leaned down and kissed his lips. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and fell onto Steve's chest.

He smiled as she broke off the kiss.

He wondered if it mattered that she still felt like a stranger to him, when he could imagine that he loved her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The following week, he put on one of his suits and found a local branch of the bank listed on his debit card.

He needed to get an idea of what his finances were like, and he sensed that gaining access to his account could be challenging. He must have had some sort of experience to teach him that, but it was abstract knowledge that seemed unattached to memory.

He didn't have a birth certificate or social security card to help prove his identity, and obtaining those documents was a battle he would save for a later day.

What he did have was the note from his wallet. He'd been thinking about what the odd mix of words might mean, and now he had a pretty good idea. It was worth a try, at least.

At the bank, he was beckoned into a small office with glass walls. The woman behind the desk smiled as he sat down.

"What can I do for you today?"

"My name is Steve Tabernackle. I have an account, and need some help accessing it." He leaned forward and smiled regretfully. "See, I had an accident a few weeks ago. Sustained a head injury."

"Oh," she said, her eyes widening. "I'm sorry. I hope you're okay."

"I'll be fine. But see, my memories are a little spotty now, and I forgot my PIN. But I have my debit card. And my ID. So I thought I'd come in and get it sorted out."

"Of course. I'll do what I can to assist you. Do you remember your security questions?"

"Yes, I believe I do."

He handed over his driver's license and debit card and sat back while she pulled up information on her computer.

"Okay, Mr. Tabernackle? Can you tell me your mother's maiden name?"

"Sinclair."

"And the street you grew up on?"

"Meriwether."

"Your first pet?"

"Harry."

Her smile was promising. "Almost done. First car?"

"A BMW."

She turned to him and said, "All right. We're in. I'll just reset your PIN for you. Would you like me to reset your username and password for our online banking site, too?"

"That would be great."

He could barely contain a smile at his success. With luck, he'd be able to use the same answers to access his credit card account. He just wished he knew why he had the note in the first place. He sensed he wasn't the one who'd written it—why would he tell himself to burn it? But who else knew his security questions, and why had they needed to give them to him?

The banker was still looking at the computer screen, and raised her eyebrows.

"Have you considered opening a savings account with us?" she asked.

"Do you think I should?"

"Well, considering you balance, a savings account would keep your money more secure. You could easily transfer money to your checking account as needed."

"Right. And could you remind me of my balance?" He smiled and tapped his forehead. "Again, my memory...."

Looking back at the screen, she said, "You have two-hundred thousand two-fifty, and ninety-five cents."

"That sounds right. I'll give the savings account some thought."

He didn't know if the amount of money she'd read was a lot for him or not. He wondered if he had more somewhere, or if he had much money tied up in assets. Annabelle had told him he was an art collector.

How long would it take him to find all his resources? At least his bank account would keep him afloat for a bit, assuming the remaining medical expenses didn't bankrupt him.

On his way back to Annabelle's house, he stopped at a liquor store. He felt like testing his debit card and getting some wine to celebrate his success.

Did he like wine? He couldn’t remember much about what food and beverages he liked. He would have to ask his doctor if that fell under episodic or systematic memory. It was mostly his episodic memory that was affected, but his systematic memory was spotty. He could remember plenty about how the world worked, but this morning he hadn't known how to make scrambled eggs. When the maid had come to his rescue, he'd joked about feeling like his brain was scrambled, and she'd laughed awkwardly in response.

In the liquor store, he solicited the aid of an employee to help him choose a bottle, and after his new PIN worked, he left with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He hoped that when he came home with it, it would remind Annabelle of the man she'd met.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Annabelle intended to leave Cape Cod at the end of August, and Steve was prepared to go with her.

On their last day there, Steve got his suitcase out of the closet. As he opened it on the bed, the light caught the top and he noticed something strange under the lining. He ran his fingers across it and realized that he could just make out an irregular shape. He poked and pulled at the edges of the lining until he found a small opening.

When he pulled out the lining, several items fell loose and landed on the floor. He got down on his hands and knees to collect them.

There was a passport. He opened it and saw a picture of himself, but the name in this passport was Nicholas Halden. There was a small stack of cash, mostly high denomination bills. There was a leather sleeve holding several credit cards in various names, including Nicholas Halden. Another leather case contained several thin metal tools that he thought might be lock picks.

Steve sat on the floor with his back against the bed. As he continued to study the items, his mouth went dry.

Who _was_ Steve Tabernackle?

He got up and fetched his passport from the nightstand, and compared it to the Nicholas Halden one. They both looked authentic.

Perhaps it was innocent. Maybe he'd changed his name at some point. It would explain why the hospital had been unable to find any record of Steve Tabernackle or his family in St. Louis.

Still, he sensed that this was not something he should share with the authorities. Or with Annabelle.

Other possibilities occurred to him. He didn't know exactly what he did for a living. Perhaps he worked for the government. But he stopped himself in his tracks. If he was undercover, wouldn't someone have looked for him by now?

He stashed the items back in their hiding place, and made sure the lining concealed them. He was glad Annabelle was driving them to New York. It was going to be a long drive, but Steve didn't like the idea of explaining the hidden items to TSA agents.

For now, Steve's plan was to act like the items didn't exist.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It had been almost three months since his accident. Steve's recovery was noticeable but gradual. He still tired easily, and on those occasions he enjoyed sitting on the balcony of Annabelle's apartment. She had a nice view of the East River.

Today, while he sat outside in the breeze, he thought about Annabelle.

The other day, he'd accompanied her to a charity ball that her father sponsored. He'd ended up asking to go home a little early because he was getting another headache. He'd been embarrassed, but during the cab ride home, Annabelle had assured him it was okay.

"I don't enjoy those things much, anyway," she'd told him. "I was glad to have an excuse to go home."

The headache still embarrassed him. If he wasn't prone to nausea, he would have tried to ride it out. But throwing up at the party would have been worse than leaving.

Back at her apartment, he lay down in the guest room while Annabelle took a bath. He took some of the migraine pills the doctor had prescribed, and closed his eyes.

When Annabelle came into his room later, her hair still wet and stringy, his headache was starting to clear up. When she climbed onto the bed next to him and asked, softly, if he was feeling better, he nodded.

They had not had sex since his accident. He wasn't sure if they'd slept together prior to that or not. It seemed ungentlemanly to ask. As she untied her bathrobe and slipped out of it, the sight of her naked body was new to him. He didn't know if he'd ever touched her before.

She reached for her robe and pulled a foil packet out of her the pocket. She started to tear it open, but Steve held out his hand, and she gave it to him. She lay back and watched as he pushed his pajama bottoms down and started to stroke his dick.

Between the physical trauma, the stress, and the medications he was on, Steve hadn't felt much like sex. A couple weeks ago, he'd masturbated and found it to be an oddly clinical experience. Afterward, his head had hurt and he felt worn out.

This time, with Annabelle lying beside him, he felt stirrings of pleasure. After putting the condom on, he laid back and let Annabelle climb on top of him.

When it was over, he was exhausted. His heart was pounding, and, somehow, he knew that the sex had taken a greater toll on him than it would have if he'd been healthy. But it was worth it.

They'd barely spoken about what they did. It was not an awkward silence—it was like the progression of their relationship was expected.

Steve had no objections. He didn't know if he would ever regain his memory, and all he could do was plan for the future. He saw a good future in being Annabelle's boyfriend.

Steve looked at his watch and stood up. Annabelle was at work. She worked for an art gallery, something that, according to her, was one of the things that initially brought them together. Steve had liked art.

Steve considered going out. He hadn't been out on his own much. He wasn't worried about navigating the city, but there was still something safe about immersing himself in Annabelle's world. It was simpler than trying to rebuild his own life.

But he'd barely been alone since the accident, and it was starting to wear on him. Annabelle seemed to think he'd get lost if he went out on his own. As much as he'd taken comfort in sticking close to Annabelle, it was restrictive, as well. Sometimes he felt like a dog, following her and relying on her kindness. He hoped that wasn't how she saw him.

Today was a prime opportunity to get out and do something. It was a nice day in early September, still warm but no longer stiflingly hot.

He stepped into the apartment and walked over to the table by the front door, where Annabelle kept her mail. He shuffled through a messy pile of old flyers. Annabelle was on a lot of mailing lists, and was always getting leaflets about upcoming events hosted by organizations she belonged to. Steve found the one he was looking for: there was a wine tasting at a high-end shop not far away. Steve had discovered that he liked wine quite a bit, though he had to be careful with some of the medications he took.

A wine tasting seemed safe enough.

He changed into a suit and tie and left, locking the apartment behind him with the key Annabelle had given him. After a few minutes, he managed to hail a cab.

The wine store was already busy when he arrived. A blonde woman in a navy blue dress greeted him as he stepped in.

"Welcome," she said warmly. "Have you been here before?"

"I don't believe so, no. I've been in Europe for a while."

"Ah, I see. Well, we have some great European wines here today."

There was a fifty dollar entry fee, which he gave little mind to. After processing his debit card, the woman led him into the interior of the store.

"Was there anything in particular you were interested in today?"

"Do you have any White Zinfandel? It's my girlfriend's favorite."

"We do. Our Zinfandels are on the second floor."

He thanked the woman and took a look around. He would go upstairs in a minute. First, he decided to investigate the Pinot Noirs that were on the first floor.

Steve found wine comforting, because he remembered it, more or less. He couldn’t remember which kinds he liked, so tasting it was an adventure. The names were foreign to him. Yet, when he tasted it, he could understand the qualities of it. He understood the aroma, the bouquet, the body.

He mixed with the other guests on the first floor for several minutes before heading up the spiral staircase to the second story. The crowd up there was smaller, and one corner was dominated by a short, bald man wearing a garish orange and black ascot.

"The last time I went to Central Park at night, a man claiming to be Hunter S. Thompson tried to sell me peyote." The bald man laughed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his listeners' laughter was much more forced.

Steve made his way to the other end of the room, where a small selection of White Zinfandels was available for tasting. As he tried one, he looked up and the bald man caught his eye.

The bald man had just taken a sip of wine, and when he saw Steve he choked and coughed. His eyes widened. The people he'd been talking to had now turned their attention to each other, and the man scurried over to Steve. Steve's heart quickened as a sense of foreboding enveloped him.

"Where you have been?" the man asked quietly. "I haven't seen you in months. _Months_! I was starting to think the worst."

"I'm sorry, I don't know—" He was about to say that the man had mistaken him for someone else. But he didn't know that, did he? Had he just found someone who knew him?

"How long have you been back? I thought you'd call me."

"Not very long."

"And you went to a wine tasting before you came to see me?"

Steve ignored the question. "Have you tried to call me?"

"Of course. The number didn't work, so I figured you got a new burner. I thought you'd just come see me when you got back. But it's been months! Didn't you realize I'd be worried?" The man looked around, as though to see if anyone was watching them. Lowering his voice further, he said, "Wait, is this a job? Is that why you ignored me?"

"What? No. I just wanted to taste the wine." What type of job? Did he have a career?

The man grinned. "Isn't it great?" He motioned for one of the attendants to give him a sample of the White Zinfandel that Steve was trying. As soon as he got the sample, he downed the wine.

"You're not supposed to swallow it like that," Steve said. "Actually, I don't think you're supposed to swallow it at all."

"Wine tasting without swallowing it is a waste of good wine. Seriously, Neal, where have you been? I've been at your place almost every day."

_Neal_. Steve remembered the Nick Halden passport. He hadn't found any identification with the name Neal on it, but if he had one alternate name, who was to say he didn't have any others?

"I've been staying with someone. I mean it—I haven't been in town that long."

"Oh? Is this a female someone?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Maybe...."

The man smiled. "See? I told you it was only a matter of time. There's so much I have to tell you. Wait 'til you hear about Estelle—"

Steve held up a hand. "Listen, I have to tell you something. When I was out of town, I was in an accident. I hit my head."

"What?! Are you okay? Why didn't you call me?"

"It's okay. I'm great. But I'm still recovering, and sometimes I get these memory lapses, you know? So if you have to remind me of some things, that's why."

"What do you mean by memory lapses?"

"Just random stuff. It's not a big deal."

He didn't want to admit to the extent of his memory loss. Not yet, anyway. And until he knew why this man knew him as someone named Neal, he wasn't going to tell him that he was living as Steve Tabernackle.

"Listen," Steve said. "Maybe we could go back to my place to catch up."

"Sure! We can have more wine there. I'm afraid I may have gone through some of your collection, though. I had no idea when you'd be coming back."

As they left the wine store, Steve tried not to make it too obvious that he was following the strange man's lead. If he had an apartment, this might be his only way of finding it.

There was an empty cab parked on the curb a couple blocks away, and the bald man unlocked it. Steve raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't have pegged his apparent friend as a cabbie.

With traffic, it took them a half hour to reach their destination. Steve followed his companion to a modest apartment building, where they rode the elevator up to the ninth floor.

Standing in front of an apartment door, Steve hesitated. His life could be behind that door, and he didn't know if he was ready to find it. He reached into his pocket and grasped his key ring. He'd developed the habit of carrying his keys with him. It made him feel like someone who had someplace to go.

He pulled the keys out and selected the largest one. It went into the lock smoothly.

It was a studio apartment. Steve could find no fault with it from first glance, but it wasn't what he'd expected considering the extravagant lifestyle Steve Tabernackle purportedly led. The place was surprisingly clean. He'd expected a layer of dust over everything, but this supposed friend of his must have kept the place neat.

As Steve stepped into the interior of the apartment, he tried not to show his unfamiliarity. He wished he was alone, so that he could study everything and put these new pieces of the puzzle together.

"I've been collecting your mail," the man said, pointing to a small pile on the kitchen island. "Of course, you don't get a lot."

"Thanks," Steve said. He walked over to the kitchen to go through the pile. There wasn't much, but everything was addressed to Neal Caffrey.

He must have had another mailbox somewhere. A PO box, maybe. He thought about asking his friend, but decided to wait.

He had no intention of telling this man that he was living as Steve Tabernackle. There had to be a reason for the multiple identities, and if this man only knew him as Neal, it was better not to chance it.

As he thumbed through the sparse mail, it occurred to him that he couldn't be positive that Steve Tabernackle was his real identity. It seemed real enough—there was the bank account, for one thing. And Steve knew he'd been a gambler. Annabelle had mentioned him playing poker in the days before his accident. Perhaps he had debts. Perhaps the other names were a way to avoid paying them.

Or...maybe he _was_ in law enforcement. A deep-cover agent. If Neal Caffrey was a cover, he couldn't blow it.

"As loath as I am to remind you, I'm surprised you haven't asked about Kate," the friend said. "Your new sweetheart must be something else."

Kate. The name didn't ring any bells. "What about Kate?"

"Nothing. She's still in the wind, my friend. It's good you're moving on. I know you loved her, and I know you hate me for saying this, but I knew this day would come."

"I guess you were right."

The man opened his mouth as though he was prepared to argue his point, and then closed it. He narrowed his eyes.

"Are you sure you're okay? You don't seem like yourself. You know, when you took so long to show up, I was starting to worry they got you. But I figured if they did, I'd see it in the newspapers."

"Wait, what?"

This was starting to feel more and more like some sort of spy caper.

"Oh, sure, accuse me of being paranoid. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you!"

Steve scrunched his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. There was no way he could get answers without revealing the extent of his memory loss. And the more he heard, the less he was sure he wanted any part of Neal Caffrey's life.

Steve walked over to the corner that served as a bedroom. There was a queen-size bed, and an armoire a few feet away. He opened the armoire and took a look at his clothes. There were a few very nice suits, some colorful button-down shirts, some khaki pants, and a couple pairs of jeans. The drawers underneath contained socks, underwear, and t-shirts. None of it gave him much to go on. Neal Caffrey's wardrobe was a little less extravagant than his own, but that was fitting given the size and style of the apartment.

A thought occurred to Steve. Pulling out his phone, he turned to his friend and said, "Listen, after my injury, I've been having some trouble remembering phone numbers. I think I might have had your number in my phone, but I don't remember, and when I tried calling it, it was out of service."

He brought up his almost-empty address book and showed the man the number listed in it.

"Oh, yeah, I had to ditch that phone. I have a new number, now."

"Do you mind programming it in?"

The man took the phone from him and started pushing some buttons. Steve smiled. When his friend handed the phone back, Steve looked down at the name and number that had been added.

"Thanks, Dante."

"Oh, sure, make fun of my alias. You have to admit Dante Haversham has a little more spark than Nick Halden."

_Alias_. There went that plan to find out his friend's identity.

"No, no, it's a good name. I like it."

"Yeah, though it does lack the _je ne sais quoi_ of Mozzie."

This guy's name was _Mozzie_? Steve wondered if it was another alias. It probably was.

"Listen," Mozzie said, "I'd love to stay and catch up more, but I have to meet with Hale. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Great. If I don't see you, I'll give you a call."

As soon as Mozzie left, Steve started a more thorough examination of the apartment.

There was an empty easel by a window, confirming his suspicion that he was an artist. There was a stack of finished paintings against the wall, and Steve got down on his knees and looked through them. He recognized some of them from when he and Annabelle had gone to the Met a few days ago. He'd painted reproductions—very good ones, from the look of it.

On the bookshelves, he found a lot of books about art, coins, and antiquities. In a letter tray, he found flyers and programs from various events: gallery openings, museum shows, auctions, parties....

In a drawer, he found a New York driver's license and a passport, both with his picture and the name Neal Caffrey.

His doctor had told him that amnesia couldn't be cured with reminders. Either he would recover his memory or he wouldn't. Regardless, he'd hoped that if he found his home, what he found would make sense. He would recognize his life, even if he couldn't remember it. But there was no recognition as he went through Neal Caffrey's things. Some of the things, like the easel and the art books, made sense. But for the most part, he didn't know what made sense or not. He felt like an outsider.

What if he never came back here? Annabelle didn't know about Neal Caffrey, and Mozzie didn't know where to find Steve Tabernackle, if he knew about Steve at all. It didn't seem like anyone had reported Steve or Neal missing.

What was stopping him from just...being Steve Tabernackle? He could find out how many months he had left on this lease, pay it up, and let the lease expire. He could destroy the other IDs and pretend he never knew about them.

Annabelle had been hinting that he might be able to get a job in her father's company. He hadn't wanted to accept her pity, but now he was inclined to pursue the matter. His life would be simpler if he could just be Steve Tabernackle. With enough time, people wouldn't notice or care that he lacked a past.

He looked at his watch. It was almost five. Annabelle would be home soon, and they had plans to go out to dinner later. He took a final look around the apartment before leaving.

Steve caught a new cab home. When he arrived, Annabelle was already there. She was sitting on the sofa looking at a magazine, and quickly got up when he came in. She was still dressed up from lunch, wearing a coral-colored dress and a large pair of pearl earrings.

"Where did you go?" she asked. He could tell that she was trying not to sound concerned, but her eyes gave her away.

"To a wine tasting. Remember that flier you got last week?"

Her smile became a little more relaxed. "Oh. Did you have fun? I hope you didn't have too much to drink. With your medication—"

"I'm fine. And yes, it was nice." He remembered he'd meant to purchase a bottle of wine to surprise her with. After meeting Mozzie, his plans had been forgotten. But he was home now.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss.

"Let's go out to dinner tonight. Anywhere you want. My treat."

"No. Save your money until you have all your assets again."

"It's fine. You're always doing so much for me. Let me treat you tonight."

She pressed her forehead against his. "You're such a good man. I know things have been hard, but I'm glad everything's worked out like this."

He breathed in the smell of her perfume and told himself that this was his life now.  


 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.

 

  
Peter regarded the stack of check and mortgage fraud cases on his desk with some apprehension. He wasn't one to complain about dull cases, and he knew El appreciated it when his caseload allowed him to come home in time for dinner. But he would have rather been working on the James Bonds case.

There'd been nothing new about Caffrey for over a month. He'd thought they were so close to catching him. Almost five months ago, the NYPD interrupted the robbery of some very valuable Byzantine coins, and nearly apprehended a man matching Caffrey's. But both Caffrey and the coins got away, and since then, there'd been nothing. Interpol couldn’t find any trace of Caffrey in Europe or Asia. Peter was thinking about checking South American and African countries. Caffrey was reportedly fluent in Spanish and knew conversational Swahili.

El recently accused him of obsessing over the case. Maybe he was. If he couldn't catch Caffrey, maybe it was for the better that the trail had gone cold. When Caffrey reappeared (and he would. A criminal that bold could never stay away for long), Peter would be fresh and ready to tackle the case with new energy.

He'd just dived into a mortgage fraud case when there was a frantic knock on the doorframe. Looking up, he saw Jones standing in the doorway, out of breath and carrying a rolled-up newspaper in his hand.

"You won't believe what I just found."

"What happened?" Peter asked. "Did you run here?" He looked at his watch. He'd gotten to work early today, before most of his team. Jones wasn't due to arrive for another ten minutes.

"I was looking through the paper while I was in line for coffee, and guess who I saw? Neal Caffrey."

Peter stood up. "What are you saying? Caffrey's in the paper? Are you sure it's him?"

"Almost positive. Here, take a look for yourself." Jones stepped into the office and laid the paper out on the desk. He turned to the society page and pointed at a photograph from a charity ball.

The picture showed a silver-haired, middle-aged man in a tux. To his left was a younger woman in a green evening gown, and standing beside her, at the edge of the picture, was a man who looked remarkably like Neal Caffrey. His hair was shorter, but Peter would recognize the face anywhere. Caffrey's hand was on the woman's arm.

Peter read the photo's caption. _Gregory Pryor, CEO of Pryor Industries and co-sponsor of the 2004 Benefit to End Multiple Sclerosis._

Tapping the photo with his finger, Peter said, "This Gregory Pryor. I always see him on those 'Most Successful' lists. You think Neal was attending the event with him?"

"Don't know, but he's definitely with the woman. Look how they're standing."

"I bet she's connected to Pryor. Let's see what we can find out about these people."

"I'm on it." Jones turned and started to leave.

"Oh, and Jones? Good job."

Jones stopped, looked over his shoulder, and smiled. "Thanks. But it was just luck."

"It was a good eye."

After Jones left, Peter sat back down and leaned back in his chair. He couldn't keep himself from smiling.

The trail was hot again. At the very least, they knew Caffrey was in New York. And with luck, Caffrey had no idea they were onto him.

Peter was going to catch him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"How much do you think an apartment in a building like this would cost?"

Diana smirked. "Why? Thinking about moving?"

"No," Peter said, "I think I'm happy with what I've got."

It was hard for him to wrap his mind around an apartment that might be more expensive than his house. But in this building, he wouldn't have been surprised if that was the case. Hell, they'd even had to be buzzed in before they could enter, and now they were walking up to a reception desk. Peter saw now that the man who had buzzed them in was a uniformed security guard. He appeared to be in his thirties, and his curly black hair was closely cropped.

Peter pulled out his badge again, even though he'd flashed it to a security camera a few minutes ago. "We're here to see Annabelle Pryor."

"I believe she's out at the moment. But I can ring her apartment, if you'd like."

"If you don't mind."

The guard picked up a clunky white phone and jabbed some buttons. After a minute, he hung up and said, "Sorry, no answer."

"That's all right. Hey, while we wait, maybe you can answer a couple questions for us."

The guard shrugged. "I can certainly try. I hope Ms. Pryor isn't in any trouble. She's a nice woman, and she seems to be a great tenant."

"Actually," Peter said, "we're more interested in a possible friend of hers." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded-up copy of their sketch of Caffrey. He set it on the desk. "Have you seen anyone matching this description?"

The guard raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. That looks like Steve."

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Steve Tabernackle. He's Ms. Pryor's boyfriend. Seems like a nice guy."

"Is he here often?"

"He lives here. Has ever since Ms. Pryor returned from vacation in Cape Cod."

Peter exchanged a look with Diana. To the guard, he said, "Thank you for the information. I think we'll call on Ms. Pryor again in a bit. Listen, would you mind not saying anything about this visit? I don't want to alarm Ms. Pryor before we get a chance to talk to her."

"Right...this Steve guy, he didn't do anything, did he?"

"Nothing you need to worry about." Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his cards. Handing it to the guard, he said, "But if you do see him, it's important you don't say we were looking for him. If you see anything odd, or if there's any sign that Mr. Tabernackle is planning to go out of town, give me a call."

The guard looked down at the card and nodded. "Yeah...will do."

Once they were outside, Diana smiled, shook her head, and said, "I can't believe we have him."

"We don't have him yet. We can't take anything for granted—Caffrey's made some close escapes before. We'll have to act fast."

"When do you want to move?"

"As soon as we can get a team together."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter didn't dare take anything for granted. Caffrey was good at having escape routes worked out. Europol had almost caught him once in Spain, and he escaped by zip-lining down a clothesline. Peter still didn't know how he managed that.

So Peter covered his bases. Diana was helping with surveillance from the van, and there were agents stationed at the various fire exits. Peter led a team consisting of Jones and four other agents up to the twentieth floor.

When they reached the apartment, Jones stood beside Peter while the other agents took their positions on either side of the door. Peter knocked and then held his breath, listening carefully for any noise on the other side of the door. He heard soft footsteps, and then the sound of the deadbolt unlocking.

The door opened a crack. Peter recognized Annabelle Pryor.

"Yes?" she asked. She looked confused, probably wondering how they'd gotten up there without buzzing her apartment.

Peter held up his badge. "Agent Burke, FBI. We have a warrant for the arrest of Neal Caffrey."

Annabelle smiled nervously. "I think you have the wrong apartment. I don't know anybody by that name."

"What about Steve Tabernackle? That name sound familiar?"

Her smile disappeared. "Do you have a warrant?"

Peter pulled the paperwork out of his breast pocket. "Yes, we do. In addition, we have probable cause to believe a fugitive is on the premises."

Peter didn't want to push his way into the apartment, but Annabelle appeared to be frozen. He gently pushed on the door, and she stepped back, clearing the way.

But as she saw the agents with their guns drawn, she shook her head, saying, "This is a mistake. I'm going to call my father and our lawyer, and I'm going to file a complaint. You can't come in here."

Peter drew his own gun and made his way down the hall toward a closed door. He moved quietly and carefully. As he started to reach for the doorknob, the door suddenly opened, and Peter raised his gun on Neal Caffrey.

Caffrey stood in the doorway. His eyes widened when he saw the gun, and he slowly raised his hands.

"Neal Caffrey," Peter said, "you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say may be used against you in a court of law...."

His heart was pounding, and he started to smile. He'd spent three years waiting for this moment, and now that it was happening, it felt unreal, like a dream.

Caffrey didn't say a word, but his eyes darted, betraying his surprise. Peter realized he didn't have a plan. He hadn't been expecting this.

For once, Peter had been one step ahead of him.

"Listen," Neal said, "whatever this is about, I haven't done anything. My name is Steve Tabernackle."

"I know who you are, Neal," Peter said.

Jones caught up with Peter and walked around him to get to Caffrey. Neal was surprisingly pliant as Jones pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed him. Peter holstered his gun and took one of Caffrey's arms while Jones took the other. Together, they led him toward the front of the apartment.

When Annabelle saw him, she said, "Steve! What's happening?"

Her anguished voice seemed to rouse Caffrey. He blinked, looked at her, and said, "You need to call your father. I need a lawyer."

She nodded. "We'll get you a lawyer. Don't worry. You'll be home by tomorrow."

Peter didn't have the heart to tell her how unlikely that was.

As they led Caffrey out of the apartment, he looked over his shoulder at his crying girlfriend.

"I'll call you as soon as I can," he said. "I'll take care of this."

A few of the agents stayed behind to search Caffrey's things and gather evidence. Peter and Jones lead Neal away.

Caffrey didn't say anything more until they hustled him into the elevator. As they rode down to the lobby, he asked, "Are you going to tell me why I'm under arrest?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter had imagined interrogating Neal Caffrey many times. But he never would have expected it to be like this.

The man sitting in front of him didn't seem like the same man who had once sent expensive champagne to the van. Or who'd made late-night, teasing phone calls from European resorts.

That man had respected Peter's intelligence.

"Come on, Neal," Peter said with a skeptical smile, "you really expect me to believe your real name is Steve Tabernackle?"

"Yes," Caffrey said. He tried to spread his arms, and the cuffs on his wrists jingled. "I showed you my ID."

"Considering you're known for having multiple aliases, I'm sure you'll forgive me for not trusting you."

When it came down to it, Caffrey's _name_ was a minor concern. They'd chased him for a while before they even had a name for him.

But Caffrey wasn't just claiming that his real name was Steve Tabernackle. He was claiming to have no connection to Neal Caffrey whatsoever.

Frankly, it was insulting.

"Look, I'm telling the truth," Caffrey said. His voice became strained. "My name is Steve Tabernackle. I have no idea who Neal Caffrey is or what you think he's done."

"This is too desperate for you, Neal. You're better than this."

" _That isn't my name._ "

Peter raised his eyebrows. He expected Caffrey to deny everything, but wasn't expecting him to raise his voice or sound so distressed. Criminals like Neal Caffrey were usually hard to rattle.

"Okay, let's talk about your relationship with Ms. Pryor. When did you meet her?"

"A couple months ago, while I was on vacation in Cape Cod. Whatever you think I've done, she has nothing to do with it."

"You guys seem pretty serious. I take it you're not with Kate anymore."

Caffrey blinked. "I don't know anyone named Kate."

"Relax, Neal, we know all about you and Kate. We also know about this." Peter reached into a box that was on the interrogation table and pulled out a bag. Inside was the passport his agents had found hidden in a secret compartment of Caffrey's suitcase.

He'd let Caffrey cool his heels until after the agents could conduct a preliminary search of his belongings. Peter wanted all the ammunition he could get, and now he placed the damning evidence on the table. "Recognize this?"

Caffrey shook his head. "No."

"So, you don't have any explanation for why we found a passport with the name Nick Halden hidden in your suitcase?"

"I thought you were looking for Neal Caffrey."

Peter picked up the bagged passport and looked at it. "Possession of a forged passport is a crime. Besides, we know all about Nick Halden and what he's been up to. We can link you to the alias, Neal. It's no good pretending. We know who you are."

Caffrey visibly swallowed. He looked like he wanted to speak, but instead he lowered his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed his forehead.

"Look, I'm tired. You've had me here all day, and I'm getting a headache."

"Sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can get you out of here. C'mon, stay with me."

Caffrey looked up. He squirmed in his seat. "Listen, there's something I haven't mentioned yet."

"Go on."

He hesitated before speaking. "When I was in Cape Cod, I had an accident. I had a head injury, and now I don't remember anything from before that."

Peter could barely contain a smile. "Amnesia? That's what you want to go with?"

"I can't remember anything. I don't know how I got that passport. When I came to, they told me I was Steve Tabernackle, and I didn't question it. I have no idea who Nick Halden is. Or Neal Caffrey."

"You really want me to believe this?"

Fear and anger flashed in Caffrey's eyes. "What? You think I'm lying?"

Peter raised his eyebrows.

"I have proof," Caffrey said. "You can check. I was at Randolph Memorial Hospital in Cape Code for over a week. I was treated by Dr. Britt. And I've started seeing Dr. Richard Mackey here in New York. He's a neurologist."

Peter scribbled this information down on a notepad that was sitting on the table. "All right. I will check."

"And you should run my names in government databases, if you haven't already."

"How come?"

"How do you know I'm not an undercover agent?"

"You're not an undercover agent, Neal."

"Can you know that? For sure?"

Caffrey's story was getting more outlandish by the moment. But when Peter looked in his eyes, he realized that Caffrey might be _serious_.

"Okay, I'll check."

"Thank you." Caffrey looked down at this cuffed hands. "And I may have lost my memory, but I know you can't make me talk to you. I'm not saying anything more until I have a lawyer."

At this point, Peter didn't care. If Caffrey wanted to stick with this amnesia story, he wasn't going to be divulging much, anyway. Peter packed up the evidence box and left the room, leaving Caffrey sitting at the table. Jones was on the other side of the two-way mirror.

"Man," he said after Peter shut the door, "this is getting interesting. So, what do you think? Has Caffrey lost it?"

"Only way to find out is to look into his story. I'm going to follow up on what he said about the doctors. Mind keeping an eye on him for a few minutes?"

"Sure, no problem."

It took more than a few minutes for Peter to follow up with the hospital and the local doctor Caffrey mentioned. The results were consistent with Caffrey's story. It would take longer to confirm it and gain access to Neal's medical records, but Peter had to grudgingly concede that he might actually have suffered a head injury.

He wasn't going to accept the claim of total amnesia so easily. Caffrey wouldn't have been the first suspect to pretend to have no memory of the crimes.

Still, the whole thing made Peter uneasy. Whether Caffrey was telling the truth or not, his claims of amnesia would need to be evaluated. That could delay the trial, which could be exactly what Caffrey wanted.

Peter sighed and shook his head. Was it too much to ask for a clean, simple arrest?

He leaned back in his desk chair and thought for a moment. Then, he turned to his computer.

They'd already run the name Neal Caffrey through every database available to them, and there was never an indication of Caffrey being either an undercover cop or a spy. They'd done similar searches on all the other aliases they knew about. Steve Tabernackle was a new one to Peter, and he ran a quick search on the name.

It came up empty.

Peter stepped out of his office and found Diana, who was working at her desk.

"Hey," he said, "you guys have a chance to run Caffrey's prints yet?"

"Yeah," she said. "It looks like we might have a match on a couple prints we lifted from the bonds."

"So...there was nothing connecting him to the CIA or any other agency?"

Diana raised an eyebrow. With a smirk, she asked, "No, why?"

"Just checking."

If Caffrey really believed he might be a spy, he was going to be disappointed.

Peter headed back to the interrogation room. When he neared it, he saw that Jones was no longer outside but in the room. He was hovering over Caffrey, who was sitting on the floor. Peter ran the rest of the way inside.

He took in the sight in front of him. Caffrey was sitting on the floor, leaning over a metal wastebasket. Jones was standing with his hands on his knees.

"What happened here?" Peter asked.

Caffrey held up his cuffed hands. "I'm fine...." His weak voice suggested otherwise.

Jones straightened up and stepped over to Peter. "Caffrey's sick. Lost his lunch in the wastebasket."

Lifting his head, Caffrey said, "It's just the headache. This happens sometimes. I'll be okay."

Peter briefly wondered if Caffrey had manufactured this illness, and immediately felt a little guilty.

Caffrey looked in pretty bad shape, even for someone who had just been arrested. His face had gone pale, and the lightness of his skin emphasized the pink scar on his left temple. Peter had noticed the scar when they'd first brought him in. It must have been new—it wasn't in any of the descriptions or security camera pictures they had of him.

"I called for a medic," Jones said.

Before Peter could express approval, Caffrey leaned over the wastebasket and retched.

Today just kept drifting further and further away from Peter's expectations.

After what felt like an eternity, a nurse arrived. A custodian followed, and took away the foul wastebasket.

The nurse spent a few minutes talking to Neal. She gave him a bottle of water and something for his headache. After she left, Neal stayed on the floor of the interrogation room. He sat with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest.

"We're going to have the marshals collect you," Peter told him. "We can continue this conversation another time."

"Where am I going?" Caffrey asked.

"You're going to have to stay in lockup until your bail hearing."

Peter intended to make sure Caffrey didn't _get_ bail. He was going to stress to the prosecutor that Caffrey was a serious flight risk.

By the time the marshals showed up to take him away, Caffrey had managed to get back up into the chair he'd vacated.

Peter walked the marshals to the elevator, and stood there until the doors closed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Under different circumstances, Steve would have hesitated to touch the phone, let alone put it up to his ear. But he was so relieved to have a chance to make a phone call that he didn't spend much time worrying about how many inmates had touched the phone before him.

He'd waited hours for a phone call. Some U.S. marshals had escorted him from the FBI offices to a detention center, and the marshals had insisted on processing him before allowing him access to a phone.

His hands were still cuffed in front, so he cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he raised both hands to dial. His finger hovered uselessly over the keypad. He had to call Annabelle. If he didn't, she would have no idea where he was. She was supposed to get him a lawyer.

But his mind was blank. He couldn't remember the number.

"You need to make your call."

Steve looked over his shoulder at the marshal, and then back at the phone. His heart was pounding.

Had he known her number before? His short-term memory still wasn't perfect, but he'd been doing okay lately. But he couldn't think right now.

Aware that the marshal behind him was getting impatient, Steve took a deep breath and dialed the first number that came to mind. It rang eight times before Steve hung up and tried a different number.

This time, after a few rings, a man answered and said, "Renaldo's Pizza."

"Sorry," Steve said. "Wrong number." He hung up.

"All right," the marshal said, "let's go."

"No, I haven't made my call yet." He picked up the phone in panic.

"You just did."

"I have to reach my girlfriend. She's going to contact my lawyer."

"She didn't answer. You can try again in the morning."

"I dialed the wrong number." He held up a finger. "One more time, okay? One more."

The marshal sighed. "All right, man. One more try, then you've gotta come with me."

A number came to mind and he dialed it, hoping for the best. Eventually, someone answered, but it wasn't Annabelle. It was the strange man he'd met the other day.

"Mozzie!"

"Neal? What's going on?"

"I've been arrested."

"The Feds got you?"

"Yeah, and I need your help, okay? You have to find my girlfriend and tell her where I'm at. I'm in the custody of the U.S. Marshals."

"Okay. What's her name?"

Steve didn't worry about whether he could trust Mozzie or not. Right now, he was his only chance. "Annabelle Pryor. She lives at 250 East 82nd Street. Her apartment is 2031. Buzz her apartment and tell her you know me. She knows me as Steve Tabernackle."

"Ah, of course. I should've known she thinks you're Steve."

"Just find her, okay?"

"I'm on it. Just...worry about taking care of yourself."

"Thanks."

Steve hung up, feeling immensely relieved. At least now someone knew where he was.

The marshal took him by the arm and led him down a hallway. They stopped in front of a small, single occupancy cell.

The marshal took the handcuff key off his belt, and Steve raised his hands so the cuffs could be taken off. The only time the cuffs had come off since his arrest was when he'd first arrived here, and had to strip and put on an oversized white jumpsuit. He hoped the cuffs would be off for a while, now. They hadn't been very tight, but he still rubbed his wrists.

"How long am I going to be here?" he asked.

"You'll have your first court appearance within the next few days. If you're not granted bail, or you can't make bail, we'll put you in with the general population. There are a lot of people awaiting trial."

In other words, he could be locked up for a while.

"This whole thing is a mistake," he said. "They might drop the charges."

"Sure, wait and see what the judge says."

The marshal didn't sound very optimistic. Steve could tell he was humoring him.

After the marshal left, locking the door behind him, Steve sat on the plastic mattress on the "bed" and rested his head in his hands. The nurse at the FBI offices had given him some Tylenol. It wasn't as effective as his prescription medication, but it had helped. At least he wasn't nauseous anymore. He'd told the marshals about his prescriptions, but he still hoped he wouldn't be here long enough to need them.

After a minute, he got up and walked over to the door. He peered out the small window. In the cell across from his, he could make out a man pacing back and forth. Otherwise, he seemed to have relative privacy for the time being.

He had to go to the bathroom, bad. He hadn't gone since early that afternoon, and he'd drunk all the water he was given at the FBI. His cell had a stainless steel toilet with no seat, and he quickly used it. He realized afterward that he didn't have any soap, but he washed his hands with cool water in the matching stainless steel sink.

Feeling much better with an empty bladder, he lay down on the bed. He hoped the plastic mattress was clean, but it wasn't like he had many options, and he was exhausted. Eventually, he was sure he would start getting bored. But there was no way he would be able to concentrate on a book or other diversion right now.

He wanted to believe that this whole thing was one big mistake. People had been mistaken for fugitives before. Maybe there was someone named Neal Caffrey who was his doppelganger. Maybe Neal was his brother.

He wasn't sure he really believed that. As much as he wanted to be Steve Tabernackle, he wasn't dense. Ever since he'd found the alternate passport hidden in his luggage, the possibility that he was a criminal had been in his mind. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, but to not be aware of it took more denial than he was capable of.

"Neal Caffrey," he whispered, trying to get the feel of the name. It sounded no more familiar than Steve Tabernackle, but he supposed it was best to start thinking of himself as Neal.

He wondered if he should have told Agent Burke about the apartment, and about Mozzie. He hadn't been completely honest when he'd claimed not to know about Neal Caffrey. But his gut told him that it was best not to reveal anything. Besides, if they couldn't prove he was the man they were looking for, they couldn't keep him here. Could they?

The cell was cold and disturbingly quiet. He hoped he wouldn't be forgotten. He hoped Mozzie was finding Annabelle right now. He wondered how long it had been since he'd made the phone call. He didn't have his watch.

After a long time spent deep in thought, he somehow found sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, he was picking at his breakfast when a marshal opened his cell door.

"Your lawyer is here to see you. Try to finish that up in the next five minutes."

Steve cared much more about seeing a lawyer than eating the sorry excuse for oatmeal that he'd been given. He pushed his tray aside and stood up.

The marshal escorted him to a private meeting room, where a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a crisp suit sat at the table, surrounded by papers. He stood when Neal entered, and offered his hand.

"Good morning. I'm Michael Griffin, with Kilgore, Griffin, and Pritchard. Greg and Annabelle Pryor have asked me to represent you."

Neal took a seat across from Griffin. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"No problem, Mr. Caffrey," Griffin said as he returned to his seat. "Most criminal cases are short notice. Oh, and is it Caffrey or Tabernackle?"

"I suppose that depends."

"I understand your situation is complicated. For now, I think it's best that we maintain that your identity is Steve Tabernackle, and that you have no reason to believe otherwise."

"Have you found out when I'll see a judge?"

"I have, yes. The Feds have requested a few days to prepare before your bail hearing. Your hearing has been scheduled for Thursday. The fact that they asked for this time probably means they intend to show that you're a flight risk and shouldn't be released pending trial. But I'm optimistic. You're going before Judge Dryer. He's usually pretty good at granting reasonable bail. And I think we can use your medical condition to our advantage."

"Will I have to enter a plea?"

"No, your arraignment will be a separate hearing. Do you intend to plead not guilty?"

"Of course." He hadn't considered any alternatives.

"Best case scenario the case won't make it past the indictment, and you won't have to worry about pleading. Unfortunately, we don't know what type of evidence the Feds have on you yet. I'll put in a request to review the evidence immediately."

"What's the worst case scenario?"

"That it goes to trial and you're found guilty. But it's too soon to worry about that. Right now, I want you to start thinking about where you'll live if you are granted bail. You'll need a permanent address."

Neal hadn't considered that. He'd taken for granted that she would support him, but he still hadn't spoken to her. He had no way of knowing. Still, the fact that she and her father had found him an attorney was a good sign.

"If the case goes to trial," Neal said, "what then? How am I supposed to defend myself against these charges when I don't remember if I committed the crimes or not?"

"We'll work with that, Mr. Tabernackle. I won't lie—your case is a difficult one. But I like a challenge."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later that afternoon, he had another visitor. This time, it was Annabelle and her father.

They were in the regular meeting room, where they were separated by a pane of glass. Annabelle handled the phone gingerly, only holding it with her fingertips and not placing it against her ear.

"We'll get you out of here," she said. "Don't worry."

"Thank you. And thank you for calling a lawyer for me."

Mr. Pryor took the phone from his daughter. "I know Mike. He's a good lawyer." Then, abruptly, he said, "They're saying you forged Atlantic Partners' bonds."

"Among other things, apparently. I didn't do any of it."

"Frankly, I don't know if you can say that. I'd like to believe you, but let's be honest—your history has a lot of holes in it. I'm only here because my daughter seems to believe in you."

"Well, sir, I'm glad you have such confidence in Annabelle's judgment."

"We'll see, I suppose. Anyway, I know Stuart Gless. He owns Atlantic Partners. He's a decent guy—I'm sure he'll agree to a settlement."

"Dad, it's not that type of case." Annabelle's voice was muffled as she wasn't speaking directly into the phone. "I think they're going to prosecute Steve no matter what Mr. Gless wants."

"I know that," Mr. Pryor said. "But that doesn't mean he won't have any influence on the sentencing. And we have to think ahead. The last thing Steve needs is a civil case on top of the criminal one."

Neal hadn't considered that he might be sued. There was so much happening so quickly.

"Right now," Neal said, "I just want to get out of here."

"I'm sure they'll grant you bail," Mr. Pryor said. "Mike won't let them keep you locked up in here."

"Mr. Griffin says that if I get out, I'll need an address."

Annabelle took the phone from her father. "Isn't mine okay? I mean, I'm not kicking you out, if that's what you're worried about."

Neal smiled sheepishly. "I wouldn't blame you."

"Don't be ridiculous. We'll get to the bottom of this."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days stretched by slowly, and Neal had far too much time to think in his small solitary cell.

On the morning of his hearing, he was woken up early. Once at the courthouse, he spent what felt like the whole morning locked in a holding pen waiting to be collected. He wished he had his watch.

When he was finally escorted to the courtroom, he was happy to see Griffin. He also got a look at the U.S. attorney who was going to be prosecuting his case. She appeared to be in her thirties, and was wearing a tailored black suit with a pale blue shirt. Her shoulder-length light brown hair was plain but neatly curled under at the tips.

As he took his place in front of the bench, Neal looked around and spotted Annabelle and her father sitting in the gallery. Annabelle gave him a nervous smile.

Griffin noticed where Neal's gaze was focused. Leaning over, he said softly, "I let her know it would help if she was present today. We need to show that you have ties to the city."

That made sense, but the idea that Annabelle might not be there solely because she wanted to be made him nervous. Nonetheless, it was a positive sign that she wanted to visibly support him.

Everyone, except for Neal, was nicely dressed. It made him feel out of place in his white jumpsuit. His hands were again cuffed in front of him.

Judge Dryer emerged from his chambers after a minute, and started the proceedings immediately. For the most part, it was routine. The charges were read and Neal was informed of his rights.

Then, it was time to decide on bail. The prosecutor, whose name was Morales, spoke first.

"Your Honor, Neal Caffrey has eluded the authorities for three years. He's managed to avoid capture several times, and is an expert forger. When he was arrested, forged passports were found in his possession. It is the opinion of the United States government that he is a flight risk, and should be remanded into custody pending trial.

"Mr. Caffrey is being charged with several counts of fraud and theft that span the course of three years. He has no legitimate employment that we know of, and part of the reason it's taken so long to apprehend him is because he owns no property, doesn't have a valid driver's license or state ID, and doesn't pay utility bills. If he's released pending trial, there's nothing stopping him from fleeing."

Judge Dryer looked at Griffin. "How does the defense respond to this?"

"Your Honor," Griffin said, "perhaps Neal Caffrey is the sort of man who would run. But my client is not the same man the FBI has been chasing for the past few years."

"You're claiming that the FBI arrested the wrong man?"

"I intend to show that my client's identity cannot be conclusively established. But regardless of who my client is, he has no memory of the time period over which the alleged crimes were committed. A few months ago, he suffered a severe head injury that resulted in complete retrograde amnesia and mild anterograde amnesia. This means that he has no memory of his life prior to his accident, and that his ability to form short-term memories has been damaged. For the past three months, he has lived as Steve Tabernackle. He has had every reason to believe that Steve Tabernackle is his true identity. He has a girlfriend, whom he lives with. If that isn't a reason to stay, I don't know what is.

"In addition, my client wouldn't know how to begin to run. He doesn’t know how to forge identification or hide from the authorities. If he ever knew, that knowledge is long lost to him."

Morales spoke up. "Your Honor, the FBI and the U.S. Attorney's office are skeptical about Mr. Caffrey's claim of amnesia."

"His injury is well-documented," Griffin said. "He was treated by a doctor in Cape Cod after the accident, and had no reason to fake amnesia at that time.

"Keeping my client in jail pending trial would be cruel and have detrimental effects on his health. Mr. Caffrey, or Mr. Tabernackle, suffers from post-concussion syndrome, a condition that causes severe headaches and nausea. He has continuing problems with his eyesight in his left eye, and he has to take anticonvulsive medication to prevent seizures. Since his arrest two days ago, my client has complained of worsened confusion and short-term memory loss. He deserves the chance to recover at home with his loved ones while he awaits trial. If it would help, I have a letter from his neurologist stating that it would be difficult for the defendant to obtain the care he needs while in jail—"

Judge Dryer held up a hand. "That won't be necessary. Thank you, Mr. Griffin. I agree that withholding bail in this case is excessive. However, I also appreciate the concerns about Mr. Caffrey, or whatever his name is, running. Mr. Caffrey will be released on bail on the following conditions: he will surrender his passport and remain on house arrest pending trial, with the exception of work and doctor's appointments."

Griffin nodded. "Thank you, Your Honor."

The prospect of house arrest was less than appealing. But Neal had spent a lot of time at home lately. It was better than jail, in any case.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After everything was arranged, the marshals took Neal home. At the apartment, they put an electronic monitoring anklet on Neal while Annabelle watched with her arms crossed and a pained expression on her face.

They went over the rules: he couldn't leave the apartment except for set times. Since he didn't have a job, that meant he was stuck there twenty-four-seven for the most part. The only exceptions were for doctor's appointments, which he had to notify the marshals of in advance, and court appearances.

Considering the alternative, Neal wasn't about to complain.

The entire time the marshals were in the apartment, Annabelle stood by the front door with her arms crossed, as though she was waiting to usher them out.

Finally, he and Annabelle were alone.

Annabelle moved into the entrance to the living room, and looked down at her shoes. Neal was sitting in a chair. He crossed his legs so that he could get a look at the anklet they'd put on him.

"You won't run, will you?" she asked.

He looked up. "I wouldn't do that."

She made a small murmur. "Should I still call you Steve? Or is it Neal now?"

"I don't know which one is really my name," he admitted. "If either of them are."

"Well, which do you want?"

Neal got up. He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She felt tense.

"Which do you think?"

"It's better for you if you're Steve Tabernackle, isn't it?"

"It's better because I have you. I want this life." He leaned in and kissed her, a gesture she only half-heartedly returned.

She pulled back. "A man came to see me a few days ago," she said softly. "He said his name is Haversham. He was the one who told me where you were, after they arrested you."

"Oh, right. When the marshals took me in, I couldn’t remember your number. I had to call him."

"Who is he? Why didn't you tell me you knew someone here?"

"I'd just met up with him. I would have told you about it, but I didn't have a chance. He's an old friend, apparently."

Annabelle sucked on her lower lip. "If he knows you're Steve, he should tell the FBI. It'd help your case, wouldn't it? If they could see you have a history?"

Neal was silent.

Annabelle swallowed visibly and took a deep breath. "Or does he not know you as Steve?"

"I don't know how he knows me. I didn't want to ask. He doesn't know how bad my amnesia is."

"You didn't know about this Neal Caffrey person, then?"

"No. I swear I didn't know."

She smiled softly. "I'm glad." She stepped away, over to the hall table. She started to shift through takeout menus. "I was thinking we could order dinner in tonight, since we can't go out. What sounds good to you?"

"Anything but jail food."

As she started to look through her stack of takeout menus, she said, "It's probably just mistaken identity. Or maybe someone sold you the forged bonds. We'll figure it out...."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter wondered how many women Neal Caffrey had played.

From all indications, Neal had been very devoted to Kate Moreau. But Peter had also heard plenty of stories about Neal's romantic exploits. There was the princess. And the attractive art restorer. And the supermodel.

Now, there was Annabelle Pryor: heiress, art collector, gallery manager, and socialite. Judging by her lack of cooperation, she was still under Caffrey's spell.

"How long have you known Neal Caffrey, exactly? When did you guys meet?"

Annabelle sat rigidly in her chair with her hands folded on her lap. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a bun. "In Cape Cod," she said. "In late June. My father and I go up there for the summer. I met _Steve_ at a yacht party. We seemed to have a lot in common, so we made lunch plans. And then I suppose we started seeing each other."

"How long had you known him when he had his accident?"

"A couple weeks, give or take."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "And you let him recover in your home? Big commitment for someone you knew for two weeks."

"He was hurt," she said, defensiveness creeping into his voice. "On our boat. I wasn't going to abandon him."

"You and your father have already been helping with his medical bills. Giving him a place to live goes beyond the call of duty."

"I care about him. And—I blame myself."

"Ms. Pryor," Peter said gently, "if he's said anything to make you feel like you owe him your hospitality, it's not your fault. You wouldn't be the first person to be conned by him."

Annabelle leaned forward and planted her hands on the table. "No, it isn't like that at all. Steve doesn't even remember what happened. I'm not an idiot, Agent Burke. I know my legal responsibilities. My father has a reputation for being tough—he's never been afraid to sue people, and I know how the system works. But I also like to think I'm a decent person. I couldn't just abandon him. None of this would have happened if it weren't for me."

"I don't think you can blame yourself—"

"It was my fault. The accident. I didn't have control of the boom, and it hit him."

"And Steve isn't aware of this?"

"No," she said softly.

"You thought he would sue?"

"He _could_ have," Annabelle said with a shrug. She studied her fingernails. "My father was afraid that would happen. We didn't cheat him. Like you said, we've done more than enough. But I wasn't afraid of being sued. I just wanted to do the right thing. And when Steve woke up...he was so lost and confused. I couldn't tell him how the accident happened."

Peter couldn't help but have some sympathy for her. And for Neal. Looking at Annabelle, Peter believed her when she said she'd meant well. But Neal also deserved to know the truth.

"I understand feeling responsible," he said gently. "It was a terrible accident, and it's natural to want to make things better. But it doesn't change the facts. The man you know as Steve Tabernackle is actually Neal Caffrey. He's a conman, thief, and forger. He didn't deserve to be hurt, but protecting him now won't do anything to remedy that."

Annabelle looked thoughtful, and Peter hoped he was getting through to her.

"Now," he said, "I need you to think back to when you first met Neal. In retrospect, did he do or say anything that might have been suspicious? Did he express any interest in artwork or other valuables you might own?"

Annabelle blinked and folded her hands. "Well, we talked about art. He was interested in a Matisse I purchased last fall, but that doesn't make him an _art thief_."

Peter had questioned many people in his career, and he considered himself good at it. Despite Annabelle's words, he could hear the doubt in her voice, and see it in her eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?!"

"I didn't know who you were. Or how you knew me. I wanted to figure out what was going on before I divulged too much." Neal smiled sheepishly. "When I learned about the different identities, I might have thought I was a spy."

Mozzie appeared slightly mollified. "Okay, that _is_ a reasonable belief under the circumstances. But I'd still appreciate it if my best friend let me know he couldn't remember me!"

"Exactly. I didn't _remember_ you were my best friend."

And though Neal didn't say it, he didn't truly know that even now. Mozzie could tell him whatever he wished, and Neal would have no way of verifying it.

But he tentatively trusted Mozzie. He was still grateful to him for contacting Annabelle. And this afternoon, Mozzie had showed up unexpectedly to offer further support. Annabelle was out this afternoon, and Neal had been bored. He was starting to feel the limitations of his house arrest, and having some company helped ease them.

Since Mozzie was clearly going to be a part of his life, he'd had no choice but to tell him the truth about his amnesia. Mozzie would learn the truth eventually, and Neal wanted it to be from him.

Now, Mozzie was pacing back and forth in front of Neal. Neal, who was sitting back in one of the living room chairs, followed him with his eyes.

Stopping momentarily, Mozzie said, "You really don't remember anything?"

"No, nothing. There are some vague memories from when I was a kid, but that's it." Something occurred to him, and he frowned. "I don't even know how old I am."

His three sets of identification had three different dates of birth.

"You're twenty-six. Your birthday's March 23. That much I know. As for the other part, we've always shared a mutual respect for chosen names."

Neal smirked. "I figured your name isn't really Mozzie."

Mozzie stepped over to a desk that was against the wall and opened one of the drawers, taking a peek inside. He'd already scanned the titles on the bookshelf and peeked behind all the paintings and mirrors he could find on the walls ("I wouldn't put it past the marshals to plant bugs," he'd said).

It was a good thing Annabelle wasn't there.

"Don't worry," Mozzie said. "You can count on me. I'll find a way to help you get your memory back."

"It's not that simple. Besides, it might be better if I don't get it back right away. My lawyer's hoping to use my amnesia to our advantage."

If Neal was indicted, Griffin hoped to delay the trial. He was also certain the he could use Neal's condition to gain a jury's sympathy.

Neal was scheduled to see a psychologist in a few days. The psychologist was supposed to be able to verify that Neal's amnesia was real. The prosecution and the FBI seemed to have their doubts. Neal supposed a lot of suspects must fake amnesia.

While Mozzie explored the living room, Neal took a peek at the two large canvas tote bags Mozzie had brought over. Mozzie had taken it upon himself to provide Neal with some entertainment.

One of the bags contained a few books. Neal took a quick look at the titles. A few were nonfiction, dealing mainly with history and art. There were a couple novels. Finally, there was a book about UFOs. Neal wondered if this was representative of his taste, and whether his taste had changed since the accident.

The other bag had pencils, pastels, and a sketchpad.

"I know it isn't much," Mozzie said. "Next time, I'll try to bring your easel."

"Do you think the Feds found much in my apartment?"

He knew they had searched it. He'd had his apartment key on him when he was arrested, and he'd had the address written down somewhere in his bedroom. It couldn't have taken them long to figure it out.

"After you called me from lockup, I took it upon myself to clean your place. I had to be quick, but I'm confident that nothing incriminating was found."

That was good to hear. Neal had wondered if they'd found more evidence against him.

"They're all true then? The charges?"

"Uh, yeah. Did you really think they weren't?"

Neal shrugged. "I didn't know. I don't remember."

"Ah. 'A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory.' Mark Twain."

Bad memory or not, by this point Neal wouldn't be surprised if he'd done everything he was accused of. He was only resistant to admitting it. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn't returned to New York. He couldn't believe he would have evaded the authorities forever. Not when he wasn't aware he had to evade them. But maybe he would have had months or even years of a good life. Would that make what he was going through now easier or harder?

"Of course," Mozzie said, "your assets are safe. Except for your Steve Tabernackle account. Obviously, the Feds will do whatever they can to take that money."

Something occurred to Neal. "Were you the one who gave me the note with the security questions? I found it in my wallet after my accident."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "Neal! I specifically instructed you to burn that!"

"It's a good thing I didn't. If I did, I wouldn't have had any money for the past few months."

"I just can't help but feel a little protective over Steve. I helped create him. I set up the account. And now he's been burned. You'll never be able to use that alias again."

Neal blinked. "This isn't just a name we're talking about, here. This is my life."

"Correction: you _thought_ it was. Steve Tabernackle is a great guy, but he's not real. I know you like this life, but sooner or later you'll have to accept reality."

It wasn't that simple. Right now, his life as Steve Tabernackle was no more or less real than anything else he knew. What if he never remembered who he was? Did he even _want_ to remember? The thought unnerved him. What if remembering changed him?

Mozzie continued. "Right now, just focus on getting yourself out of this mess. And if you want to run—"

"I don't," Neal said quickly. "But thank you. For all your help."

"It's nothing, mon frère."

Mozzie stayed a little while longer. After he left, Neal started to check out the art supplies. He was curious how much of his abilities he'd retained.

He sat down at the dining room table and laid out the supplies. He selected a pencil, held it over the sketchpad, and tried to sketch without thinking about it too much.

He hoped, perhaps, that he would instinctively draw something buried in his subconscious. Instead, he started a sketch of Mozzie.

The ease with which the lines flowed from his hand surprised him. It was reassuring. He had times when he wondered if the man he'd been before his accident had been erased, but moments like this gave him confidence that his memories were still there, beneath the surface.

He was almost finished with the sketch when Annabelle came home. She set her purse on the hall table and walked over to him, looking over his shoulder.

"That's wonderful. Is that your friend Mr. Haversham?"

"Yeah, he brought over these supplies for me today."

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Maybe later, you can draw me."

Neal looked up at her and smiled. "Sure. I think I can do that."

She returned his smile, but it was tense. Releasing his shoulder, she walked around the table and sat down across from him.

"I wanted to tell you, my father has hired a private investigator."

Neal set down the pencil. "To investigate me?"

"It's not that he doesn't trust you—"

"Are you sure about that?"

Annabelle tucked her hair behind her ear. "Well, maybe he has some doubts. But it doesn't matter. He's hoping the PI will be able to dig up something about your past. Maybe find family or other friends. It could help you. That's your whole defense, that if you had your memory you might be able to exonerate yourself."

She was right. If he uncovered his past, maybe there would be something to prove that he _wasn't_ the person the FBI was looking for. On the other hand....

"And if the investigator finds incriminating evidence?"

"He won't," she said, but Neal thought her voice lacked conviction.

If she was starting to doubt him, he didn't blame her. Something told him that he was used to being distrusted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.

It had been a couple weeks since he'd arrested Neal Caffrey, and for the first time in years, Peter felt out of the loop. Trials were drawn-out processes, and now the U.S. Attorney's office had taken over, there was less for Peter to do.

Soon enough, he would have to testify. First at the indictment, and then at the trial. He looked forward to that. Plenty of his cases never got that far—usually the defendants accepted plea deals. Occasionally, a case fell through due to lack of evidence. But he never doubted that Neal Caffrey would fight the charges against him. And Peter enjoyed testifying.

It still rankled occasionally that Neal was out on bail. Initially, Peter had waited to receive word that Neal had cut his anklet and fled. He was certain it would happen. But the call never came, and Peter had other cases to worry about.

But when he ran into Angela Morales in the lobby by the elevators, thoughts of Caffrey came flooding back.

"Angela? Didn't expect to see you today."

She turned around and smiled. "Oh, hi. Yeah, I have to talk to an agent in Organized Crime. How's it going?"

"All right. I have a meeting in about fifteen minutes, and wouldn't you know I'm running late. I'm glad I ran into you, though. I've been curious about how the Caffrey case is going."

He'd been glad to learn Angela was handling the case. She was one of the younger U.S. attorneys, but she'd prosecuted another of his cases, and he knew she could handle a trial well.

But at the mention of Neal Caffrey, her smile became strained. "It remains to be seen. The indictment's been scheduled for a couple weeks from now. But his lawyer was talking about requesting a competency hearing."

"A _competency hearing_?"

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. They both stepped inside.

"Case law is on our side. Even if Caffrey's amnesia is really as severe as he claims, there's not much precedent to find him incompetent."

"I've talked to him. He's aware of what's going on."

"Exactly. And I don't think there will even be a hearing. Still, his condition isn't making things any easier for us, and his lawyer might be able to get the trial delayed. You know he'll milk this for all it's worth. If we go to trial, and he testifies, it's going to be hard for me to question him without coming across like an asshole."

Peter shook his head. Of all the things that might have complicated the case, he never could have anticipated Neal Caffrey getting a damn head injury.

"Do you think it'll go to trial?" he said.

Angela shrugged. "We'll probably offer him a deal, but he hasn't been very cooperative. I have to say, though, I'm not optimistic about all charges. The bond forgery is strong enough to stick. But other stuff, like the theft of that Raphael? It's circumstantial right now. I don't want to let you guys down, but I'm not a miracle worker."

Her words were discouraging to hear, but not altogether surprising. Peter knew the case better than anyone. One of the things that made Caffrey so infuriating was how hard it was to pin stuff on him. There were lots of rumors and sightings. Very little hard evidence. There were several suspected crimes that they hadn't even charged him with. As for the charges, the hope had been that he would turn over stolen artwork and antiquities in exchange for a lighter sentence. A slim hope, knowing Caffrey, but it was a possibility. But if he really had amnesia, he wasn't going to remember where he'd hidden the Raphael, let alone anything else.

The elevator stopped at the nineteenth floor, and Angela stepped out. Turning to face him, she said, "Don't get discouraged. You caught the guy—that's half the battle."

He wanted to believe her, and he tried to reassure himself that the matter was out of his hands right now. This was how the system worked: he caught the bad guys, and then the federal prosecutors took over the case.

But as he continued upward in the elevator, he couldn't get Neal Caffrey out of his mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At his first hearing, Neal had been stuck wearing a jumpsuit. Today, he was wearing a dark navy suit and a maroon silk tie. It was amazing what that did for his confidence. When he arrived at the courthouse, he felt almost certain of his ability to handle the indictment.

Almost. His head had been bothering him when he woke up that morning, so he'd taken some of his migraine medication. He preferred to take the pills with food, but he didn't have an appetite. Annabelle had prodded him to eat, reminding him that the indictment might take a while, and he'd half-heartedly eaten a bowl of cereal.

Now, sitting in the courtroom, the pills weren't as effective as he'd hoped they'd be.

He tried not to let the headache affect his confidence. But hearing the assistant U.S. attorney present the evidence against him wasn't helping matters.

None of it was new to him. Neal had met with Griffin a few days ago. But Griffin had a way of presenting everything in an optimistic manner.

"They have strong evidence linking you to the forged bonds," he'd told Neal. "They have your prints on them, and security camera footage of you cashing them in. But they can't prove you were the one who forged them. The art theft charges are more circumstantial. The only problem we might have is with the charge relating to the Raphael. They have a witness who's willing to testify that you solicited his help in the robbery. But the guy's in jail on an unrelated charge, and if this goes to trial, I should be able to discredit him. He's a jailhouse snitch." He waved his hand dismissively, like it was nothing.

But now, seeing the evidence presented all at once, it felt a lot more damning.

Then Agent Burke took the stand to testify.

"Please state your name and title for the record," Morales said.

Burke leaned into the microphone. "Special Agent Peter Burke."

"You have handled this case since the beginning, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"How long has it been since you started pursuing Neal Caffrey?"

"Nearly three years."

"Do you see the man you identified as Neal Caffrey in this courtroom today?"

Burke looked at Neal. "Yes. The accused is Neal Caffrey."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Absolutely."

Their eyes met, and what Neal saw surprised him. Burke's mouth quirked up in a smile, and his expression betrayed both pride and pleasure. He was happy to be testifying today. He was happy to be testifying against _him_.

Throughout all of this, Neal had never blamed the FBI for his misfortune. They had a job to do, and Neal believed he was just another file to them.

But as Burke talked about the years he spent chasing him, and his confidence in the arrest, Neal realized that he was invested in this case.

After Burke left the stand, Neal sat back in his chair.

He was ready for the hearing to be over. He hadn't realized that the indictment would take this long.

His head was pounding. Even the scar where they'd cut open his head hurt, and he lifted his hand to touch it. His hair was growing out, but he could still feel the tender, raised scar.

He tried to will the pain to go away. He didn't want a repeat of his interrogation at the FBI offices. There was little worse than throwing up in front of the people who were scrutinizing him for weaknesses. Maybe the grand jury would have been sympathetic if he'd thrown up, but he still had his pride.

But despite his efforts to distract himself, his stomach was getting queasy. He wished he'd trusted his instincts and forgone food that morning.

He folded his arms on the mahogany table in front of him and breathed through his nose. Morales, was speaking, but Neal couldn't focus on what she was saying. When he lost the confidence that he could hold back the nausea, he leaned over to his attorney and whispered in his ear.

The judge noticed the distraction. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

Morales turned to look at them. She appeared displeased by the interruption.

Griffin pulled away from Neal and looked up at the bench, "Uh, my client is ill. I'd like to request a recess."

"Can it wait?" The judge asked.

"I don't think so, no."

"Fine. It's a good time to break for lunch, anyway. We'll reconvene in an hour."

Neal closed his eyes in relief. He could feel the sweat on his face, and he hoped it didn't look as obvious as it felt. When he stood up, his head swam.

Griffin helped him to the restroom, and then left him alone. The nausea was at bay now, but Neal didn't want to leave the bathroom prematurely.

He leaned on the sinks, his chest pounding. He ran his hand under one of the motion-sensor faucets and cupped his hands under the water. He splashed his face, not caring at the moment that water was getting on his shirt and tie. He slipped a finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it. He reached into his suit pocket for his pills, and was fiddling with the bottle when the bathroom door opened.

Looking up in the mirror, it took him a moment to recognize the man who stepped in. When he did, Neal's eyes widened.

Agent Burke also looked surprised. He paused in the doorway for a minute, appearing to debate what to do. Finally, he stepped inside and silently made his way to the row of urinals on the other side of the room.

Neal wondered if being in the same room violated any sort of anti-fraternization rule. Not that he cared. Besides, he was here first.

Neal leaned forward on the sink again. The sinks were in a low row, and Neal was at the end closest to the door. After he finished peeing, Burke took the sink at the opposite end. He glanced at Neal.

"You all right over there?"

"Yeah. Thanks for asking." He lifted his head and studied Burke for a few seconds before saying, "You really think I'm a bad person, don't you?"

Burke looked at him and blinked. "What?"

Neal stood up straight, but held on to the edge of the counter. "You were happy to testify against me today. I could see it."

Burke looked down at the sink as he rinsed his hands. "I like testifying."

"And today was personal. I bet you'll love it when the case goes to trial."

"I spent three years on this case. Yeah, I'm happy to bring you to justice. It's nothing personal to do with you, so don't flatter yourself."

Neal shrugged. "I wasn't. And I have a hard time sympathizing with you wasting three years when I've lost my whole life. I don't know what you think sending me to prison is going to accomplish."

"It's not my fault you got hit in the head." Burke stepped away from the sink and ran his hands under one of the electric dryers. He looked over his shoulder at Neal. Lifting his chin, he asked, "What's the deal with the headaches, anyway?"

"Post-concussion syndrome. Believe it or not, my doctor says I'm lucky. Even with the memory loss. I could have lost a lot more of myself." He thought for a second, and added, "Of course, maybe I have. The Neal Caffrey you chased probably would have used this recess as a chance to cut his anklet and run."

"The possibility cross your mind?"

"Sure." Neal lifted his pant leg, showing the anklet. "But you'll notice I'm still here."

Not that running hadn't occurred to him. Mozzie swore he could get him out of the country. Sometimes he didn't know why he didn't try it.

Burke left the bathroom, and Neal was alone again.

When he finally emerged, he saw Morales in the hall, talking on her cell phone. She met his eyes briefly, and then walked further down the hall. Neal sat on a bench by the courtroom doors.

Griffin came up to him, holding a paper cup of water.

"Here, thought you might need this."

Neal took it with thanks, and sipped the water slowly.

When the hearing reconvened, it lasted another hour. Finally, the grand jury made their decision.

He was indicted on the bond forgery, the theft of the Raphael painting that he'd never heard of, and the possession of fake passports.

As he left the courthouse, Griffin tried to convince him that this wasn't as bad as it appeared.

"They could have tried to charge you with a lot more."

Neal wasn't reassured. "If they find me guilty on the charges, how much time am I looking at?"

"It's too soon to worry about that."

Neal paused on the courthouse steps. "Then when _is_ the right time to worry? I want to know what I'm facing."

"We don't even know if it's going to trial yet. I'm going to try to get it delayed because of your condition. The fact that you had trouble with today's hearing just shows that you can't handle a full trial right now."

"I don't want to just delay it. I want to be acquitted."

"We'll work on it. Right now, we need time to build our case. Look at it this way—at least you can go back home for now."

That was a small comfort. He couldn't be certain that his bail wouldn't be revoked after his arraignment, and that hearing would come up all too quickly.

He saw Annabelle coming up the steps toward him. When she reached him, she gave him a hug.

When he told her the news, she squeezed his hands and said, "You'll be fine. It's not as bad as it could be, right?"

He wished he could be as confident.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What's the matter, Hon?"

Peter looked up from his plate. He'd been picking at his meatloaf. "Nothing."

El looked skeptical. "You've barely said a word since you got home. I thought the hearing went well."

"Yeah. It went great. I mean, Neal wasn't indicted on all the charges, but we got him on the bond forgery. That's the most important thing."

"So what's the problem?"

Peter set down his fork. Satchmo, who was sitting at Peter's feet, whined. Peter absently patted him on the head.

"There had to be a recess because Neal had another headache. And then I ran into him in the bathroom. He looked terrible."

El clicked her tongue. "Well, from what you told me about what happened to him, it sounds like a miracle that he's even alive."

"I guess I didn't realize that this whole head injury thing might be serious. I figured he was exaggerating. I still don't know what to think about the amnesia."

"You still think he might be faking it?"

That was just it—Peter didn't know. "This is Neal Caffrey, Hon. You can't trust anything. Remember when he pretended he was mauled by a shark?"

"I don't think he faked _this_ accident," El said gently.

She was right. Peter had followed up on Neal's story, and it checked out. There were hospital records and independent witnesses. Neal had even passed a polygraph test, though Peter didn't put it past him to be able to fake it.

"That doesn't mean he isn't exaggerating his condition." He picked up his fork and grabbed a bite of meatloaf. He chewed it slowly, deep in thought. Once he'd swallowed, he said, "If he's _not_ exaggerating...I guess it's hitting me how crazy this must be for him. It must be hard to find out you committed a bunch of crimes you can't remember." He sighed. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be simple—I catch him, he goes to trial, he gets convicted, he pays for his crimes. That's how it works. I spoke to Morales after the indictment, and she told me Neal's lawyer wants to have the trial delayed."

"Because of his health? Do you think it'll work?"

Peter shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. Even if the case does go to trial, I know Neal and his lawyer are going to milk his condition for all it's worth."

If the jury or the judge went easy on Neal because of his injury, that wasn't justice. But Peter wasn't sure that locking up a man who'd lost two decades' worth of memory was justice, either.

He didn't want to let Neal rob him of his pride over the case. But it was hard not to have some doubts. Would they have even caught Neal if his guard wasn't down?

He couldn't shake the idea that Neal was playing them. He'd gotten out on bail, and now he might have his trial delayed for months. But then, he could have run by now if he wanted to....

"It's out of your hands," El said. "This prosecutor, Morales. Is she good at her job?"

"Yeah, she's great. She got a conviction on that mortgage fraud case that went to trial in May. And I didn't know if that'd be possible."

"Then let her do her job, and try to relax. You should be proud of how the indictment went."

"You're right. It went as well as I'd hoped."

"Then let's celebrate. Eat your dinner before it gets cold, and then we can curl up on the sofa with some wine. How does that sound?"

Peter smiled at her. He could always count on El to reassure him. "That sounds perfect."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Neal was sketching when the intercom buzzed. He was home alone, so he set his sketchbook aside and got up to answer it.

Pressing the button, he said, "Hello?"

"Neal! It's me and I've got a surprise! Buzz me in."

It was Mozzie. Neal buzzed him in and waited for the knock on the door. As soon as he heard it, Neal answered the door. He froze when he saw that Mozzie wasn't alone.

There was a woman with him. She had long dark hair and the most striking blue eyes Neal had ever seen. When she saw him, her lips parted.

"Hello," Neal said.

"Hello, Neal," she said.

"I found her and told her what happened to you," Mozzie said with a smile. "She _insisted_ on seeing you."

Neal got the impression that he was supposed to be happy about this.

The woman swallowed and said, "Do you remember me?"

Neal shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, I don't. Are you Kate?"

"Yes," she said softly.

People had mentioned her to him, usually in annoyingly vague ways that implied he was supposed to know what they were talking about. No one had volunteered much information, and Neal had sensed it might be better not to ask. He liked to reassure himself that the people from his past, the ones who hadn't sought him out after his arrest, were no longer a part of his life. He had tried not to think about Kate, but here she was.

"Come in," Neal said. As he led Mozzie and Kate inside, he was glad Annabelle wasn't home. He hadn't mentioned Kate to her. He'd seen no reason to.

Once in the living room, Kate looked pointedly at Mozzie.

"Oh," Mozzie said after a moment. "Right. I'll let you two talk."

Mozzie made himself scarce, and Neal could only imagine what he was doing in the other rooms. Right now, he had other things to worry about.

He invited Kate to sit on the sofa, and, after a moment of deliberation, joined her.

Brushing her hair behind her ear, Kate said, "Mozzie tracked me down. He told me about your accident. He said you have amnesia."

"I do."

"You don't have to lie to me, okay? If this is some sort scheme to get out of going to prison, you can tell me the truth."

"What? No, it's not."

She raised her voice a notch. "Do you have any idea how cruel that would be? Letting people who care about you think you have a brain injury?"

"You don't believe me," Neal said incredulously. He'd come to expect this from the Feds. But not from his supposed friends.

"Can you blame me? It's not like you've never faked an accident before. Remember Monterey Bay?"

"No, I really don't. And I have no idea if your doubts are reasonable." He inched closer to her. "Look, I'm not lying. And this isn't saving me from going to prison. At best, I'm going to have my trial delayed a few months. I still have to go to trial, and since I don't have my memory, I have no idea how to defend myself. So believe me, I'd rather have my memory."

Kate's face softened. "I don't want to doubt you it's just—when Mozzie told me, I couldn't believe it. It sounded like one of your lies. God, I wish it _was_." She reached for her oversized purse. "Anyhow, I brought some photos. Maybe they'll help jog your memory."

"Thanks, but I don't know if it'll do any good. My doctor says that at this point, the only thing that will help is time."

She pulled an envelope out of her purse. "So, they think you'll get your memories back?"

He shrugged. "They don't know. I mean, it's been a few months, now. But it's possible." He nodded at the envelope. "I'd like to see the pictures, if you don't mind."

Kate pulled a stack of photos out of the envelope and spread them out on the coffee table. Neal took his time, looking over each one. A couple, he recognized as being taken in his apartment. He couldn’t tell where the others had been taken, but many were travel photos. One photo showed them on a boat, wearing swimsuits. Neal suppressed a shudder when he saw it. Another showed them posed in front of a fountain, smiling.

"This was when we went to Rome," Kate said.

"When did we go?"

"A couple years ago. You...the FBI was getting close. We decided to go overseas for a bit."

He could hear the tension in her voice, and he realized that no matter how happy Kate appeared in the photos, their past was not unequivocally pleasant for her. It was maddening to see only a few, carefully presented facets of his own life.

"We weren't happy, were we?"

Kate looked at him, her eyes wide. "We were, for a while."

"What happened?" When she hesitated, he said, "Hey, you wanted me to tell you the truth. I'm just asking for the same thing."

She looked at the pictures laid out before them. "We cared about each other, but we weren't a good fit. I don't think either of us was honest."

Neal took that in, and tried to read between the lines. He wondered how he had lied to her in the past, to make her think he was lying to her now. Had he cheated on her?

"Listen," he said, "you should know something. I have a girlfriend now. Her name is Annabelle—"

"I know."

"Oh."

"Mozzie told me. I'm not upset—at first, I thought you were lying about the amnesia to trick me into coming to see you. When I learned you'd moved on, I was glad."

"Well, I'm glad you came."

Kate smiled at him, and reached over and squeezed his hand.

He heard the sound of a key in the front door, and stood up in time to see Annabelle come in. Annabelle started to take her leather briefcase off her shoulder and froze when she saw Kate.

"Annabelle," Neal said, "this is Kate...."

"Moreau," Kate supplied. She stood and stepped around the sofa. As she shook Annabelle's hand, she said, "I'm an old friend of Neal's. I just found out about what happened to him."

"It was very nice of you to visit him." Annabelle's tone was neither cold nor inviting.

Neal knew she was ambivalent about Mozzie, and he got the impression she felt put out by having strangers visiting her home. He sometimes wondered if she regretted letting him stay.

If she did, he wasn't sure if he could blame her for it.

To Annabelle's credit, she recovered from her surprise gracefully.

"I was going to make some coffee," she said to Kate. "Would you like some?"

"That would be great."

Neal was a bit embarrassed to realize he'd forgotten to offer Kate and Mozzie anything. That was when he remembered that Mozzie was still lurking around the apartment.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure if it would be wise to leave Kate and Annabelle alone together. Deciding it was the least of his concerns at the moment, he went in search of Mozzie.

He found him in Annabelle's bedroom, sitting on the bed. He was reading a small book.

"Hey," Neal said softly but urgently, "what are you doing?"

Mozzie looked up. "Oh, hey. Did you know Annabelle keeps a diary? An actual diary!"

Neal's eyes widened. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "Put it back!"

"Don't you want to know—?"

"No, I don't. Put it away before she finds you."

With a shrug, Mozzie opened the top nightstand drawer and put the diary away. Neal rushed him out of the bedroom.

Annabelle and Kate were in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee. When Annabelle saw Mozzie, she raised her eyebrows. She had obviously been unaware Mozzie was there, and didn't look entirely pleased. Neal couldn't blame her. He wasn't sure what to make of Mozzie, himself.

Neal made his way back to the living room and collected the photos that were still spread out on the coffee table. He didn't want Annabelle to see them. He put them back in the envelope.

A minute later, Kate and Annabelle emerged from the kitchen, each carrying a mug of coffee. Neal went to get mugs for him and Mozzie, and the four of them sat down around the coffee table.

"How long have you known Steve?" Annabelle asked Kate.

If Kate surprised or unsettled by hearing him called by a different name, she showed no indication of it. "A few years."

"I know you two were dating," Annabelle said plainly.

Neal, who was sitting beside her, whipped his head around. He'd never mentioned Kate to Annabelle before, but her tone suggested that she wasn't just guessing.

"We were," Kate admitted. "We broke up before the accident."

Neal's instinct was to reassure Annabelle that his relationship with Kate was long over. But in his condition, it would be an obvious lie. He was a little alarmed by how much that frustrated him. Was this really who he was? Someone who had things to hide? Someone whose first instinct was to lie?

Perhaps his past was not compatible with the type of life he wanted. Perhaps it would have been better if he'd never found his old friends....

Finally, Mozzie and Kate decided to go. As Neal walked her to the door, Kate put a hand on his elbow and turned to face him.

"I'm sorry about everything that's happened to you," she said. "If you weren't alone in Cape Cod...."

"It's not your fault," he said. Without knowing her, it was an empty statement. But he believed it.

"I know," Kate said. "But I wish things could have been different."

After seeing Kate and Mozzie out, Neal returned to Annabelle in the living room.

"I'm sorry you didn't have any warning," he said. "They just showed up. I think Mozzie wanted to surprise me."

Annabelle gave him a small smile. "That's okay. You deserve to get a nice surprise. It's not like you get much excitement around here."

He walked over to the coffee table and picked up his half-full cup of coffee. He took a sip, and said, "How did you know about Kate?"

Annabelle looked up at him, blinking. "What?"

"You already knew about her."

He studied her face carefully. She rubbed her lips together and looked down at her cup of coffee.

"This morning, my father and I met with the private investigator." She looked up and quickly continued. "I wanted to have the meeting here. It was my dad's idea to do it at his office. He thought it'd be better. I didn't want to argue with him."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Better? Really?" What purpose could it possibly have served? If Mr. Pryor didn't trust him anymore, Neal couldn't entirely blame him. But keeping him in the dark seemed both unnecessary and cruel. "How is hiring a PI going to help with my defense if I don't get to hear what he finds?"

"I brought home a copy of everything." She reached for her briefcase, which was leaning against the side of her chair. She pulled out a disappointingly thin folder and set it on the coffee table.

Neal picked it up. He would have been nervous, but if it contained anything groundbreaking, he imagined Annabelle wouldn't be so blasé about it. He fiddled with the elastic band holding the folder closed.

"Your father doesn't trust me, does he?"

Annabelle sighed. "I didn't say that...."

"Let's be honest, please." He cocked his head. "What about you? Do you have doubts?"

Annabelle picked up her mug and stood. She walked over to the glass door that led to the balcony and peered out. "Well," she said after a moment, "What do you expect? It's not like I knew what to think when the FBI showed up at my door. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I'm not an idiot. It's not like you can promise me you're innocent. I was hoping the PI would find _something_ to show me you were telling me the truth. But everything he found just supports what they're saying about you." Her voice wavered. "And I now I keep thinking about when we met, and I feel like an idiot. You were so interested in my Matisse...."

He couldn't tell Annabelle that her suspicions were wrong.

He stood up and walked over to her. He could just make out the reflection of her face in the glass door. "Listen," he said softly, "I can't tell you who I _was_. But that person's gone. I want to be the man you were falling in love with."

"And what happens if you get your memory back?"

He couldn't answer that. He'd wondered himself. Would he stop being her Steve Tabernackle? Would he ever be the old Neal Caffrey again?

He couldn't help but think it would be easier if he never got his memory back. He hadn't been with Annabelle long before the FBI came along, but he'd been happy. Being Steve was the only thing he knew how to do.

Annabelle looked down. "After your arraignment, I think we should talk to the marshals about having you stay somewhere else."

Neal swallowed. "You're breaking up with me?"

"I didn't say that. I mean, I don't know. I just don't know if I can keep pretending for an entire trial. And that's what we're doing, isn't it? Pretending."

He couldn't blame her, really. Still, the thought of losing the single person who'd been there for him since his accident made him feel like he'd been cut adrift. Without Annabelle, there was no Steve Tabernackle. Another, ashamed part of him panicked at the thought of how bad this could be for his case. What would a jury think when they learned his girlfriend had lost faith in him?

Annabelle turned around. Her face was pale and her eyes betrayed fear. "Are you upset?"

Neal shook his head. "No. You have to do what you have to do. I'll be okay."

She nodded numbly. "I'm going out for a bit. The folder is for you. I can get my own copy of everything."

After she left, he stood for a few minutes in the utter silence, feeling more alone than he had since he woke up in the hospital. Then, he sat down to look at the file.

There was surprisingly little. What was notably absent was any record of him being Steve Tabernackle. On the other hand, the PI had collected information about the FBI's search for Neal Caffrey. There were print-outs of news articles with a police sketch that eerily resembled him. There was very little about Neal Caffrey, but the PI had dug up references to some of his aliases. There was record of a Nick Halden and a Kate Moreau renting a beach cabin together. So that was how Annabelle had found out.

As he looked through the scant pages, he couldn't escape the understanding that this was who he was. He hadn't been lying in those early weeks after the accident. But now, how was living as Steve anything other than a con?

Maybe the accident hadn't changed him at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.

It was a testament to how dull house arrest was that Neal was glad to go to the U.S. Attorney's offices to discuss plea bargains. It didn't help that things were frosty between him and Annabelle.

He'd been allotted an incredible five hours away from the apartment. It was meant to ensure he'd have plenty of time to meet with the prosecutor, but if he got done early, there was nothing stopping him from running errands or simply enjoying himself. As long as he stayed in Manhattan.

But for now, there was the meeting to focus on. He was in a small meeting room with Griffin by his side and Morales seated in front of him.

"Okay," Morales said, "here's what's on the table: you plead guilty to the possession of fake passports and three counts of fraud in relation to the forged bonds. The remaining fraud charges and the charges related to the theft of the Raphael will be dropped."

"Very convenient," Griffin said, "that you're offering to drop the charges that will be hardest to get a conviction on."

"Well," Morales said with a shrug, "I don't recommend that your client tempts his fate."

"And I'm not going to recommend that my client plead guilty to crimes he has no memory of committing, and no compelling reason to think he did."

The latter part was an exaggeration, but Neal was happy to pretend it was true.

"I'm afraid I agree with my attorney," he said. "I think it would be wrong to plead guilty if I don't believe I am."

Morales closed the file in front of her and started to get up. "Then I guess we don't have much more to discuss today. Give the offer some thought, and get back to us if you change your mind. And Mr. Caffrey, I suggest you think quickly and carefully, because I can't promise this offer will be on the table once your case goes to trial. I'll remind you that if you're convicted on all charges, you could be facing many years in prison."

The thought of spending years in prison was somewhat of an abstract concept to him when his memory was so limited.

Still, that didn't mean he _liked_ the idea.

As they left, Griffin tried to reassure him. "True me, we can do better at trial than if we went with that deal."

"Yeah," Neal said, his rising irritability creeping into his voice. "Unless they find me guilty on all charges."

"That won't happen. Listen, I need to get to another appointment, but I'm heading in the direction of Annabelle's place. Want to share a cab?"

"Nah, that's all right. I have a couple hours before I need to get back."

"Sure," Griffin said with an understanding smile. "Enjoy the temporary freedom."

"Freedom" was a little generous, but Neal would take what he could get.

He waited until Griffin was in his cab and riding away before he started walking. A few blocks later, he found Mozzie waiting for him by a food truck. He was holding two falafels.

"Ah," Mozzie said. "There you are. Here—I got you some lunch." He handed one of the falafels to Neal.

"Excellent, thank you."

They started to walk side by side. "What did you want to talk about?" Mozzie asked.

"I'm moving on Monday. The marshals are transferring me to my apartment."

"What? Why? Is Annabelle kicking you out?"

"She thinks it's best if we don't live together anymore."

"It's because I brought Kate over, isn't it? Did Kate say something to her?" Mozzie waved his arms, almost spilling falafel filling on Neal's suit.

"It's not Kate's fault. Or yours. I think reality is just setting in. The thing is, my finances are going to be a problem. The Feds have frozen my bank account, and if I'm found guilty on the bond forgery, I'm probably going to have to pay restitution. I still have some bills from my hospital stay that the Pryors didn't cover, and I'm going to have legal fees. I was counting on Annabelle's help."

"Don't say another word. If you need money, I can get you cash."

"It's not going to be that simple. The Feds are watching me closely. I just want to know...is what they're saying true? Do I have things stashed away?"

Mozzie grinned like an idiot. "Oh, I'll say. You could start your own small, eclectic museum."

"Do you know where the stuff is?"

"Yeah. I mean, most of it."

Neal sucked in his breath. He couldn't believe he was talking about this. So much for not being the old Neal Caffrey anymore. "Okay. I don't want to do anything right now. I just wanted to know."

They walked and ate in silence for a few minutes, and Neal took in the atmosphere. He could see why he'd lived here. It was such a lively city when he wasn't trapped in an apartment.

"Listen," Mozzie said slowly, "now that Annabelle isn't a concern, have you considered...not sticking around?"

Neal turned his head and raised his eyebrows. "What? And run?"

"Sure. That's what the old Neal would've done."

He shook his head. "I don't know...."

" _I_ do. Look, do you trust me?"

"Yeah...."

"Then let me arrange it. I can get you cash and transportation."

Neal looked down at his anklet. "If I cut the anklet, there's supposed to be a five-minute response time."

"Think of it as a five-minute head start. Look, just think about it, okay? You've got a chance to get away from all this. I'll find us a nice island without an extradition policy."

"So, what, I end up on the run for the rest of my life?"

"You've been on the run for the past few years. What's the difference?"

The difference was he couldn't remember the last few years. He didn't know how to be on the run. Still, Mozzie's offer was tempting.

"I'll think about it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"In your opinion," Griffin asked, "is Mr. Caffrey capable of handling a trial at this time?"

Dr. Mackey, the neurologist Neal had been seeing since his return to New York, was on the witness stand. The hearing was supposed to determine if the trial should be delayed.

"Well," Dr. Mackey said, "physically, Mr. Caffrey is still weak and suffers from unpredictable symptoms. Since his accident, he's suffered from severe headaches and nausea, and I think it's likely that if the trial proceeds at this time, he won't be able to be in court every day."

"And is Mr. Caffrey's condition likely to improve?"

"That's difficult to say. Head injuries can cause long-term problems. Mr. Caffrey has recovered well, considering. His condition may continue to improve."

"Thank you. That will be all."

Griffin walked back over to where Neal was seated, and Morales got up to question Dr. Mackey.

"So far, Mr. Caffrey has been able to make it to most meetings and hearings with minimal problems. Why wouldn't he be able to handle a trial?"

"Well, there's a difference between being in court for one day, or attending a meeting for an hour, and having to be in court for several days in a row for an extended time. Right now, the best way for him to manage his condition is to rest frequently."

"And if his condition _doesn't_ improve, what then? He doesn't strike me as being sick enough to avoid his responsibilities indefinitely."

Dr. Mackey considered that for a moment. "No, of course not. Obviously, the long-term goal is to help him manage any lingering effects from his head trauma. But based on his improvement so far, and other cases I've treated, I think it's very likely that his symptoms will be less debilitating in three or six months down the road."

"And what about Mr. Caffrey's memory? If the trial is delayed, is it possible that Mr. Caffrey will regain his memory and be able to testify on his behalf?"

Neal wasn't expecting this line of questioning. He'd assumed the prosecution would want to prevent the trial from being delayed, but Morales seemed to be going in a different direction.

"Well, again, that's difficult to predict. Amnesia patients have been known to recover spontaneously, and I think it's likely that Mr. Caffrey will gradually recover his memories. But it may take some time before he can remember the period of time relating to his charges."

Before the judge made his decision, both Griffin and Morales were allowed to speak. When it was Morales' turn, she confirmed Neal's suspicions.

"Your honor, the U.S. Attorney's office has decided that it's willing to delay the trial for a short time if it might allow the defendant a chance for greater participation. I hope to question Mr. Caffrey on the stand, and I understand that he'll be unable to answer questions related to the case at the present time."

In the end, it only took a few hours for a decision to be made: the trial would be delayed six months in order to give Neal a chance to further recover. Neal knew he was supposed to be pleased with this result, but he was starting to suspect he was screwed either way.

Once they were out of the courtroom, he confronted Griffin.

"I thought this was supposed to be for our benefit, not the prosecution's. Our whole case is based around the fact that if I can't remember anything, I can't exonerate myself. Remind me again how delaying helps us."

"Look, it seems unlikely that you'll remember much six months from now. Our defense will still work, and this way, we'll have more time to dig into your past for evidence that will help us."

Neal wasn't sure he agreed, and he was starting to regret not questioning Griffin's approach more. He'd been prone to confusion after his accident, and it'd been so easy to let other people guide him, tell him what he should do. Annabelle. Her father. Griffin. He should have been more active in planning his defense.

He returned to his apartment, where he'd been on house arrest now for over a week. It wasn't as nice as Annabelle's place, and it still didn't feel like his, but he could _make_ it his. Aside from the rules imposed on him by the marshals, he was free to do what he wanted in his own home. There was some power in that, and he realized it was a power he'd been missing for a while now.

He took off his suit jacket, tie, and shoes, and lay down on the bed to rest his head. He was still resting when there was a knock on the door. He got up with a groan and walked over. Looking through the peephole, he was surprised to see Annabelle.

"Hi," she said quietly when he opened the door.

"What are you doing here?"

She held up a canvas bag. "You left a few things at my place. I thought I'd bring them over."

Neal stepped aside to let her in. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem. Didn't you have a hearing today? How'd it go?"

"My trial's been delayed for six months."

"That's good, right?"

"Yeah. Now I get to spend six more months with this." He pulled up his pant leg to show his anklet. He rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, it's been a long day. Thanks for bringing my stuff. Do you want a drink?"

She set the bag on the sofa. "No, thank you. I'm on my way to meet friends, actually." She started to walk to the door, and stopped. He clasped her hands in front of her. Her posture reminded Neal of a bird—graceful but fragile. "I'm really sorry. I feel terrible that I made you leave."

"Don't," Neal said softly. "Listen, you were smart. I'm not the man you thought I was. I wish I was, but after everything you've done for me, I need to be honest. You're a sweet person—you don't need to be mixed up in this."

She blinked away tears. "It was my fault."

"What?"

"The accident. I let go of the boom."

Neal swallowed.

"It's not the only reason I helped you," she said, her voice breaking. "I really did care about you. And I feel terrible about what happened. I just wanted to give you your life back."

"It was an accident," he said numbly. "It could have happened to anyone. I didn't even think about whose fault it was." He walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. He pulled her into a hug, and she wrapped her arms around his back.

He didn't blame her. But he realized now that they were never going to get back together. There was too little honesty to base a relationship on, and too little to keep them together now.

As she pulled away, Annabelle said, "My father didn't want me to say anything because he thought you might sue. But I don't want you think that's why I didn't tell you. I just felt bad."

He squeezed her shoulders one last time before letting her go. "It's all right. I think we're even."

She gave him a soft peck on the lips and walked out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Neal had a packed duffle bag hidden above a ceiling tile in the bathroom. After Annabelle left, he stood up on the toilet and got the bag down.

It had everything he would need if he went on the run, including a new passport and an envelope full of cash that Mozzie had given him the other day. He didn't feel right keeping this stuff in his apartment, even if it was well-hidden. If it was discovered, he'd go straight back to lockup. And Mozzie was on him to make a decision.

If he wanted, he could be in another country within a day or two. That was, assuming Mozzie could be trusted. But was he ready for a life on the run? Was it better to spend the rest of his life hiding, or a finite number of years in prison?

He put the bag back in its hiding place, making sure he put the tile back properly. Then, he made his way into the living room, and picked up his phone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.

"So," Morales said, "you're ready to rethink my offer?"

Neal sat across from her at the same table they'd sat at before. Griffin was sitting beside him, barely managing to conceal his disapproval.

It'd taken a few days to get a meeting with the assistant U.S. attorney, and Griffin had urged him to reconsider the entire time. But ultimately, it was Neal's decision.

"My client can't take your offer," Griffin said. "He can't, in good conscience, plead guilty to crimes that he doesn't remember committing. However, he would be willing to plead no contest to three counts of fraud and the possession of fake passports."

Morales raised her eyebrows. "This is your sticking point? Pleading no contest instead of guilty?"

Neal had been doing his research. If he pled no contest, his plea could not be used to establish his guilt in civil court. It wouldn't guarantee that Atlantic Partners wouldn't sue him, but it would help his case a little.

"That's my condition," Neal said. "Second, I need an assurance that you'll request leniency in sentencing. I also want to serve my sentence in a low or minimum security federal prison. I need to be in an environment that won't impede my recovery."

"We could request leniency, but I can't control where you serve your sentence. That will be determined by the presentencing report. Also, you're really not in a position to issue demands."

Neal smiled. "You want this conviction, don't you? The FBI's been chasing me for what, three years? I'm sure my condition has complicated things, and I think it's best for all of us if we resolve this quickly, rather than waiting six months to begin a lengthy trial. You already offered to let me plead guilty to a reduced number of charges. I'm simply asking for a couple small alterations."

Morales studied Neal with piercing brown eyes. Clicking her tongue, she said, "Well, I can't make any promises right now, but I'll let you know within a few days if we're willing to proceed."

Neal stood and held out his hand for her to shake. "I look forward to hearing your decision."

As they left, Griffin said, "I hope you know what you're doing"

"I need to end this. One way or another."

"Well," Griffin said with a shrug, "it's your life."

It was. And Neal had to live with it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter had the house to himself. El was at an event, so it was just him, Satchmo, and leftovers.

He'd just settled in front of the TV with a can of beer and a greasy slice pepperoni pizza when his cell phone rang.

Cursing under his breath, he set his plate and can on the coffee table, muted the TV, and picked up his ringing, vibrating phone.

"This is Burke."

"Agent Burke. It's me—Neal Caffrey."

Peter felt his eyes widen. "What? Why are you calling me?"

He was surprised Neal had even found his number. It wasn't the first time he'd called his cell phone, but unless Neal's amnesia was cured, Peter doubted he'd been able to remember the number.

Instead of answering his question, Neal said, "You probably know I took a plea deal today."

"Oh, I heard," Peter said dryly.

Angela Morales had come to his office to tell him in person. They'd let Neal plead no contest to a few charges, and the U.S. attorney's office was recommending leniency.

Morales had anticipated his cynicism. "It's for the best," she'd said. "This case has been a mess. It's better to let him plead out."

She was right, of course. Peter was no stranger to how the system worked. A lot of the people he caught took plea deals. But Neal Caffrey was different. Peter had always expected a fight with him, and was a little disappointed not to get one. He used to imagine himself testifying at Neal's trial.

"You shouldn't be calling me," Peter said.

"Why not? The case is over now, right? My sentencing is in a few weeks."

"They let you go home until then?"

"Yeah. Still on the anklet, of course."

"Neal...please tell me you're not just calling to chat."

There was a small pause on the other end. "I'm going to prison. The prosecution requested leniency, but I'm definitely going away for at least a couple years. Before that happens, I want to learn more about who I was."

Peter scoffed. "So you're calling _me_."

"You're the expert, right? Chased me for three years?

"Well, yeah, but...it's not like we knew each other."

"Exactly. I need to talk to someone who'll tell me the truth."

Peter had to smile at that. "You think I'm unbiased?"

"I think of anyone, you can give me the most objective point of view. You already caught me—you don't have any stake in how I remember things now."

Peter hesitated. This still seemed irregular to him, and he didn't trust Neal's motivations.

"Please," Neal said. "I just need to know."

Peter leaned against one of the sofa arms and put his feet up. "All right, fine. When your forged bonds landed on my desk, the quality stood out to me."

"The quality, huh?"

He could practically hear Neal smiling.

"Don't get cocky. That's partly how you got into this mess in the first place."

"How much did you know about me and Kate?"

"We knew you two were together. We had some information on her. Don't know how you met, though." It was hard to get used to the idea that this was all new to Neal. "You broke up about a year ago, we think. We started seeing more evidence of you traveling alone, and we had surveillance on Kate but never saw signs of you contacting her."

Neal was silent for a moment, apparently taking that in. "Did we ever meet? Before you arrested me?"

"Only once. I was at a bank where they'd found one of your bonds...."

The other side was silent save for Neal's soft breathing as he listened to the story.


	6. Epilogue

Neal hadn't expected to like anything about prison, but he liked working in the kitchen. It gave him focus.

It was a good job, too. Even in a low security prison, there was something prestigious about being allowed to work with knives.

His bunkmate was trying to get him to use his job to influence the prison's cuisine. Mike was a wannabe fitness guru who spent most of his free time working on a book he planned to publish when he was released next year. It was going to be called _The Club Fed Diet_ and was going to be about getting fit and eating well in prison. He wanted Neal to push for healthier cafeteria options, but Neal didn't have much pull there.

But he could make the best food he could, and Neal took pride in that. When he'd first come to prison, he'd been excused from work at first while they evaluated his condition. But now that he was strong enough to stand for hours on end, he found he vastly preferred to keep busy.

Right now, he was cooking a large pot of spaghetti. Spaghetti was one of the first recipes he'd learned to make when he was young, and he used to cook it for himself a lot when he was in his teens.

Neal froze. A lump formed in his throat. He could remember cooking at home when he was fifteen or sixteen. His mother was working a night shift then, and he made them dinner almost every night.

It wasn't the first memory to return, but it was one of the latest ones. Every time another puzzle piece fell into place, he felt like he might cry with joy.

He hadn't told anyone he was regaining his memory. He wasn't sure if he would. He still liked the idea of getting a fresh start, and that seemed simpler if he had amnesia.

"Hey, Caffrey."

It was the voice of Hanson, one of the guards. Neal looked over his shoulder, expecting to be asked why he'd stopped working.

"Someone else can take care of that. There's someone here to see you."

One of his coworkers was already coming over to take his place, and Neal took off his apron robotically. It was only when he was following Hanson out of the kitchen, and pulling off his hairnet, that something occurred to him.

"Today isn't a visiting day." Worry started to fill him.

"It's not a regular visitor," Hanson explained. "A federal agent's here to see you."

"Did they say why?"

"Nope."

Neal's dread only increased. He'd thought the Feds were satisfied with his conviction.

Instead of taking him to the usual visiting room, Hanson led Neal to the legal visit room. Neal had never been there before, but he recognized the man sitting at the table.

"Agent Burke. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Peter nodded at Hanson, and Hanson left them, closing the door behind him. Neal sat down across from Peter.

"I thought I'd check in on you," Peter said, sounding almost sheepish.

Neal raised an eyebrow. "You used your privilege as a federal agent to visit an inmate just because you wanted to say hi?"

"You have a problem with that?"

Neal shrugged. "Nope. No complaints here. Do you visit everyone you put away, or am I special?"

Peter dodged the question, asking instead, "How are you holding up?"

"Could be worse. I have a job in the kitchen. And my bunkmate's made me take up running."

Peter frowned. "Wait, _made_ you?"

"Oh, it's just some fitness program. I agreed to be his guinea pig. I think it's been good for me, though. And I'm working on my GED."

Peter beamed. "Really? That's great."

"It gives me something to do."

"What about Annabelle? You hear from her at all?"

"We've written a few times. I don't know if we'll keep in touch, but it's nice to get the letters. Kate came to visit a couple months ago."

Mozzie hadn't visited at all, which hurt a little. But Neal got the sense that that was just how Mozzie was. And Mozzie put money in his commissary account every month, which was a nice compensation.

"You're doing okay, then?" Peter asked.

Neal started to lie, but realized that this might be the only conversation he would ever have where he could be honest. "It's still hard to accept. I don't see how I'm supposed to accept blame for something I don't remember."

"Even if you remembered, I don't think I'd expect you to take responsibility."

"No, I get the impression I wasn't the type of guy who would."

"I'm sure it's not easy to give up being Steve Tabernackle."

"I don't know," Neal said, shaking his head. "Sometimes I'm glad to be away from all of that. One thing I can say for prison, you get plenty of time to clear your head."

"And you'll get out in what, eighteen months now?"

"Fifteen with my good time credit."

Thanks to the request for leniency, and the reduced number of charges, he'd gotten a sentence of two and a half years. He knew he didn't have anything to complain about.

"That'll be good."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't think there are a lot of opportunities for ex-cons with amnesia."

Between the restitution he'd had to pay, his medical bills, and the taxes and penalties, the money in his Steve Tabernackle account was long gone. Right now, he wasn't optimistic about his future.

There was still the promise of hidden treasures, but Neal hadn't decided what he was going to do. Even if he wanted to risk going back to prison by selling the stolen items, he wasn't positive he'd ever find his alleged stashes. He doubted, somehow, that Mozzie truly knew where most of it was.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Peter said. "You're smart, you'll figure something out."

Neal wondered if Peter was here partly out of guilt, or a desire to reassure himself that Neal was all right. It couldn't be very fun to send an amnesiac to prison.

"Any luck with your memory?" Peter asked.

"I don't know...It's still hard to say. There might be some improvement."

"Well, maybe you could work as an appraiser or security expert."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Or consult for the FBI?"

Peter blinked, and then chuckled. "Maybe. Who knows?"

"If I ever remember what I used to know about forgeries, I'll give you a call."

"I'm sure you will."

Sitting back, Neal smiled and said, "You must be bored if you're coming here to chat with me. Don't have any interesting cases?"

"Actually," Peter said with a sly smile, "I'll have you know that I do. A forger. Maybe as good as you were."

"Well, that wouldn't mean anything to me, but I'll take it as a compliment. What's the guy's name?"

"We're calling him the Dutchman."

"Sounds mysterious. Can you tell me about him?"

"I can tell you a few things, if you have time."

"Are you kidding?" Neal said with a laugh. "I have fifteen months."

Resting his elbows on the table, he leaned in to listen.  



End file.
